Prose-Poems and Selections. 



Robert G. Ingersoll. 













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PROSE-POEMS 



SELKCTIONS 



FROM THE 



WRITINGS AND SAYINOS 

OF 

Robert G\ Ingersoll. 



P'IFTH EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED. 



NEW YORK. 

C. P. FARRELL. 
1892. 



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f^^: 



Enta-ed according to A£l of Congress, in the year :S84, by C. P. Farrei. 
ip the office oi the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. 0. 



iLL KIGHTS RESERVED. 



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,X0 



ECXLER, PRINTER, 35 FULTON S 



PUBLISHER'S PREFACE. 




HE publisher alone is responsible for the 
selection of the material in this volume. 
It has required no special skill to 
include the well-known orations and 
tributes which have become classic ; but 
the real difficulty, where there is so much 
to choose from, has been to exclude. 

For the present, the publisher contents himself 
with this collection, which he hopes will be welcomed 
by the real friends of intellectual freedom. 

C. P. Farrkll. 
Washington, D. C, March /, iSS^. 



PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



HE generous and very gratifying reception 
of " Prose-Poems," and the continued 
demand, have led to this new issue. 
The former edition has been revised, 
and at the request of many friends of 
the author enlarged, so as to contain 

much additional material and some of Mr. Ingersoll's 

latest utterances. 

C. P. Farrell. 




A^nv York, January, 1886. 



CONTENTS. 



Oration delivered on 
Decoration-Day, 1882, 

BEFORE THE GrAND ArMY 

of THE Republic, at the 

Academy of Music, N. Y., 
A Tribute to Ebon C. In- 

gersoll, 
A \' isioN of War, . 
At a Child's Grave, 
Benefits for Injuries, 

We Build 

A Tribute to the Rev. 

Alexander Clark, 
The Grant Banquet, , 
Apostrophe to Liberty, 
A Tribute to John G. Mills, 
The Warp and Woof, 
The Cemetery, 
Originality, 
Then and Now, 

Voltaire 

Lazarus, 

What IS Worship? . 

Humboldt, 





God Silent, . 


90 




Alcohol, 


91 




Auguste Comte, 


93 


_ 


The Infidel, 


95 


' 


Napoleon, 


97. 


25 


The Republic, 


100 


31 


Dawn of the New Day, 


lOI 


37 


Reformers, 


103 


42 


The Garden of Eden, . 


106 


43 


Thomas Paine, 


107 




The Age of Faith, . 


117 


45 


Origin of Religion, 


119 


49 


The Unpardonable Sin, . 


122 


57 


The Olive Branch, 


123 


59 


Free Will, 


'25 


63 


The King of Death, 


130 


65 


The Wise Man, 


131 


69 


Bruno, .... 


K^3 


71 


The Real Bible, . 


139 


75 


Benedict Spinoza, 


141 


84 


The First Doubt, 


'45 


85 


The Infinite Horror, 


147 


87 


N.\TURJE, ... 


• '53 



CONTENTS. 



Night and Morning, 
The Conflict, . 
Death of the Aged, 
The Charity of Extrav- 

AGANXE, 

Woman, . . . . 
The Sacred Myths, 
Inspiration, 
Religious Liberty of the 

Bible 

The Laugh of a Child, 

The Christian Night, 

My Choice, 

Why ? 

Imagination, 

Science, 

If Death Ends All, 

Here and There, 

How Long? . 

Liberty, 

Jehovah And Brahm 

The Free Soul, 

Life .... 

Tribute to Henry Ward 

Beecher, , 

Tribute to Courtlandt 

Palmer, 
The Brain, 

The Sacred Leaves, . 
Origin and Destiny, 
What is Poetry ? 



157 
161 
164 

165 
169 



181 
184 
1S5 
188 
189 
192 
193 
195 
'97 
'99 



205 

287 



34S 
349 
2S5 
367 



My Position, . 

Good and Bad, . 

The Miraculous Book, 

Orthodox Dotage, . 

The Abolitionists, 

Providence, 

The Man Christ, . 

The Divine Salutation, 

At the Grave or Benj. 

W. Parker, . 
Fashion and Beauty, . 
Apostrophe to Science, 
Elizur Wright, 
The Imagination, 
No Respecter of Persons, 
Abraham Lincoln, 
The Meaning of Law, 
What i.s Blasphemy ? . 
Some Reasons, . 
Selections, 

Love 

The Birthplace of Burns, 
Mrs. Ida Whiting Knowles, 
Art and Morality, . 
Tribute to Roscoe Conklin, 
Tribute to Richard H. 

Whiting, 
Mrs. Mary H. Fiske, 
Horace Seaver, . 
The Music of Wagner, . 
Leaves of Grass. . 



ORATION. 



ON DECORATION-DAY, j8S2, BKIORE THE GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC^ 
AT THE ACADEMY OP MUSIC, NEW YORK. 



ORATION. 




Delivered on Decoration-Day, 1882, be/ore the Grand Army of the Republic, 
at the Academy of Music, New York. 



HIS day is sacred to our heroes dead. 
Upon their tombs we have lovingly 
laid the wealth of Spring. 

This is a day for memory and tears. 
A mighty Nation bends above its hon- 
ored graves, and pays to noble dust 
the tribute of its love. 

Gratitude is the fairest flower that sheds its per- 
fume in the heart. 

To-day we tell the history of our country's life 
— recount the lofty deeds of vanished years — the 
toil and suffering, the defeats and victories of heroic 
men, — of men who made our Nation great and free. 
We see the first ships whose prows were gilded 
by the western sun. We feel the thrill of discovery 
when the New World was found. We see the 



oppressed, the serf, the peasant and the slave, men 
whose flesh had known the chill of chains — the ad- 
venturous, the proud, the brave, sailing an unknown 
sea, seeking homes in unknown lands. We see the 
settlements, the little clearings, the block-house and 
the fort, the rude and lonely huts. Brave men, true 
women, builders of homes, fellers of forests, founders 
of States ! 

Separated from the Old W^orld, — away from the 
heartless distinctions of caste, — away from sceptres 
and titles and crowns, they governed themselves. 
The\' defended their homes; they earned their bread. 
Each citizen had a ^•oice, and the little villages 
became republics. Slowly the saxage was driven 
back. The days and nights were filled with fear, 
and the slow years with massacre and \\ar, and 
cabins' earthen floors were wet with blood of mothers 
and their babes. 

But the savages of the New World were kinder 
than the kings and nobles of the Old ; and so the 
human tide kept coming, and the places of the dead 
were filled. Amid common dangers and common 
hopes, the prejudices and feuds of Europe faded 
slowly from their hearts. From every land, of every 



speech, driven by want antl lured by hope, exiles and 
emigrants sought the mysterious Continent of the 
West. 

Year after year the colonists fought and toiled and 
suffered and increased. They began to talk about 
liberty — to reason of the rights of man. They asked 
no help from distant kings, and they began to doubt 
the use of paying tribute to the useless. They lost 
respect for dukes and lords, and held in high esteem 
all honest men. There was the dawn of a new da\-. 
They began to dream of independence. They found 
that they could make and execute the laws. They 
had tried the experiment of self-goyernment. They 
had succeeded. The Old World wished to dominate 
the New. In the care and keeping of the colonists 
was the destiny of this Continent — of half the world. 

On this day the story of the great struggle 
between colonists and kings should Ije told. We 
should tell our childrLii of the contest — first for 
justice, then for freedom. We should tell them the 
history of the Declaration of Independence — the 
chart and com])ass of all human rights: — .'\11 men 
are ecpial, and ha\'c the right to life, to liberty 
and joy. 



12 ORATION. 

This Declaration uncrowned kings and wrested 
from the hands of titled tyranny the sceptre of usurped 
and arbitrary power. It superseded royal grants, and 
repealed the cruel statutes of a thousand years. It 
gave the peasant a career ; it knighted all the sons of 
toil ; it opened all the paths to fame, and put the 
star of hope above the cradle of the poor man's 
babe. 

England was then the mightiest of nations — 
mistress of every sea — and yet our fathers, poor 
and few, defied her power. 

To-day we remember the defeats, the victories, 
the disasters, the weary marches, the poverty, the 
hunger, the sufferings, the agonies, and above all, the 
glories, of the Revolution. We remember all — from 
Lexingt9'n to Valley Forge, and from that midnight 
of despair to Yorktown's cloudless day. We re- 
member the soldiers and thinkers — the heroes of the 
sword and pen. They had the brain and heart, the 
wisdom and the courage, to utter and defend these 
words: "Governments derive their just powers from 
the consent of the governed." In defence of this 
sublime and self-evident truth the war was waged 
and won. 



ORATION. 13 

To-day we remember all the heroes, all the gener- 
ous and chivalrie men who eame from other lands to 
make ours free. Of the many thousands who shared 
the gloom and glory of the seven sacred years, not 
one remains. The last has mingled with the earth, 
and nearly all are sleeping now in unmarked graves, 
and some beneath the leaning, crumbling stones from 
which their names have been effaced by Time's irrev- 
erent and relentless hands. But the Nation they 
founded remains. The United States are still free 
and independent. The •" government derives its 
just powers from the consent of the governed," and 
fifty millions of free people remember with grati- 
tude the heroes of the Revolution. 

Let us be truthful ; let us be kind. When peace 
came, when the independence of a new Nation was 
acknowledged, the great truth for which our fathers 
fought was half denied, and the Constitution was in- 
consistent with the Declaration. The war was waged 
for liberty, and yet the victors forged new fetters for 
their fellow men. The chains our fathers broke were 
|)ut by them upon the limbs of others. " Freedom for 
All " was the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by 
night, through seven years of want and war. In 



14 ORATION. 

peace, the cloud was forgotten and the pillar blazed 
unseen. 

Let us be truthful : all our fathers were not true 
to themsehes. In war they had been generous, noble 
and self-sacrificing ; with peace came selfishness and 
greed. They were not great enough to appreciate the 
grandeur of the principles for which they fought. 
Thev ceased to regard the great truths as ha\ing 
uni\ersal application. " Liberty for All " included 
only themselves. They qualified the Declaration. 
They interpolated the word " w hite." They obliterated 
the word "All." 

Let us be kind. W'e will remember the age in 
which thev lixed. We will compare them with the 
citizens of other nations. They made merchandise 
of men. , The\' legalized a crime. The\' sowed the 
seeds of war. But the}- founded this Nation. 

Let us gratefullv remember. 

Let us gratefully forget. 

To-day we remember the heroes of the second 
war with England, in which our fathers fought for 
the freedom of the seas — for the rights of the Ameri- 
can sailor. \\"e remember with pride the splendid 



ORA 1 K^N. 15 

victories of Hric ami Champlain and the wondrous 
achievements upon the sea — achicvcnunts that covered 
our navy ^vilh a ;<lory that ncitlicr the victories nor 
defeats of the future can cHni. We rememher the 
heroic services and sufferini^s of those who fout;ht 
the merciless sa\age of the frcMitier. We see the 
midnight massacre, and hear the war-crits of the allies 
of Hno-land. W^: see the flames elimh round the 
happy homes, and in the charred and blackened 
ruins the mutilated bodies of wives and children. 
Peace came at last, crowned with the victory of New 
Orleans — a victory that "did redeem all sorrows" 
and all defeats. 

The Revolution gave our fathers a free land, — 
the W^ar of 18 12 a free sea. 

To-day we remember the gallant men who bore 
our flag in triumph from the Rio (Irande to the 
heights of Cha|)ultepec. Leaving out of tpiestion 
the justice of our cause — the necessity for war — 
we are yet com|)elled to applaud the marxelous 
courage of our troops. A handful of men, brave, 
im])etuous, determined, irresistible, concjuered a na- 
tion. Our history has no record of more daring 
deeds. 



l6 ORATION. 

Again peace came, and the Nation hoped and 
thought that strife was at an end. We had grown 
too powerful to be attacked. Our resources were 
boundless, and the future seemed secure. The hardy 
pioneers moved to the great West. Beneath their 
ringing strokes the forests disappeared, and on the 
prairies waved the billowed seas of wheat and corn. 
The great plains were crossed, the mountains were 
conquered, and the foot of \ictorious adventure 
pressed the shore of the Pacific. In the great North 
all the streams went singing to the sea, turning 
wheels and spindles, and casting shuttles back and 
forth. Inventions were springing like magic from 
a thousand brains. From Labor's holy altars rose 
and leaped the smoke and flame, and from the count- 
less forges rang the chant of rhythmic stroke. 

But in the South, the negro toiled unpaid, and 
mothers wept while babes were sold, and at the auction 
block husbands and wives speechlessly looked the 
last good-bye. Fugiti\es, lighted by the Northern 
Star, sought liberty on English soil, and were, by 
Northern men, thrust back to whip and chain. The 
great statesmen, the successful politicians, announced 
that law had compromised with crime, that justice had 



ORATION. 17 

been bribed, and that time had barred appeal. A race 
was left without a right, without a hope. The future 
had no dawn, no star — nothing but ignorance and fear, 
nothing but work and want. This was the conclusion 
of the statesmen, the |)hilosophy of the ])oliticians — 
of constitutional expounders: — this was decided by 
courts and ratified by the Nation. 

We had been successful in tlircc wars. We 
had wrested thirteen colonies from Oreat Britain. 
We had conquered our place upon the high seas. We 
had added more than two millions of square miles to 
the national domain. We had increased in population 
from three to thirty-one millions. We were in the 
midst of plenty. We were rich and free. Ours 
appeared to be the most prosperous of Nations. Pnit 
it was only appearance. The statesmen and the poli- 
ticians were deceix'cd. Real \'ictories can l)e won only 
for the Right. The triumph of Justice is the (Mily 
Peace. .Such is the nature of things. He who en- 
slaves another cannot be free. He who attacks the 
right, assaults himself. The mistake our fathers made 
had not been corrected. The foundations of the 
Republic were insecure. The great dome of the temple 



was clad in the light of prosperity, but the corner- 
stones were crumbling. Four millions of human 
beings were enslaved. Party cries had been mistaken 
for principles — partisanship for patriotism — success 
for justice. 

But Pity pointed to the scarred and bleeding 
backs of slaves ; Mercy heard the. sobs of mothers 
reft of babes, and Justice held aloft the scales, in 
which one drop of blood shed by a master's lash, out- 
weighed a Nation's gold. There were a few men, 
a few women, who had the courage to attack this 
monstrous crime. They found it entrenched in consti- 
tutions, statutes, and decisions, — barricaded and bas- 
tioned by every department and by every party. 
Politicians were its servants, statesmen its attorneys, 
judged its menials, presidents its puppets, and upon 
its cruel altar had been sacrificed our country's honor. 
It was the crime of the Nation — of the whole country 
— North and South responsible alike. 

To-day we reverently thank the abolitionists. 
Earth has no grander men — no nobler women. They 
were the real philanthropists, the true patriots. 

When the will defies fear, when the heart ap- 
plauds the brain, when duty throws the gauntlet 



ORATION. 19 

down to fate, when honor seorns to compromise 
with death — this is heroism. The abohtionists were 
heroes. He loves his country best who strives to 
make it best. The bravest men are those who have 
the greatest fear of doing wrong. Mere poHticians 
wish the country to do something for them. True 
patriots desire to do something for their country. 
Courage without "conscience is a wild beast. Patri- 
otism without principle is the prejudice of birth, the 
animal attachment to place. These men, these women, 
had courage and conscience, patriotism and principle, 
heart and brain. 

The South relied upon the bond, — upon a bar- 
barous clause that stained, disfigured and defiled the 
federal pact, and made the monstrous claim that 
slavery was the Nation's ward. The spot of shame 
grew red in Northern cheeks, and Northern men 
declared that slavery had poisoned, cursed and blighted 
soul and soil enough, and that the Territories must 
be free. The radicals of the South cried : " No 
Union without Slavery!" The .radicals of the 
North replied : "No Union without Liberty!" The 
Northern radicals were right. Upon the great issue 
of free homes for free men, a President was elected 



by the Free States. The South appealed to the 
sword, and raised the standard of revolt. For the 
first time in history the oppressors rebelled. 

But let us to-day be great enough to forget 
individuals, — great enough to know that slavery was 
treason, that slavery was rebellion, that slavery fired 
upon our flag and sought to wreck and strand the 
mightv ship that bears the hope and fortune of this 
world. The first shot lil)erated the North. Constitu- 
tion, statutes and decisions, — compromises, platforms 
and resolutions made, passed, and ratified in the 
interest of slavery became mere legal lies, mean and 
meaningless, base and baseless. Parchment and 
paper could no longer stop or stay the onward march 
of man. The North was free. Millions instantly re- 
solved that the Nation should not die — that Freedom 
should not perish, and that Slavery should not live. 

Millions of our brothers, our sons, our fathers, our 
husbands, answered to the Nation's call. 

The great armies have desolated the earth. The 
greatest soldiers have been ambition's dupes. They 
waged war for the sake of place arid pillage, pomp 
and power, — for the ignorant applause of vulgar 
millions, — for the flattery of parasites, and the adula- 



ORATION. 



tion of sycopliants and slaves. Let us proudly re- 
nieni])er that in our time the i^reatest, the grandest, 
the noblest army u{ the world fought, not to enslave, 
but to free; not to destroy, but to save; not for con- 
quest, but for conscience; not only for us, but for 
every land and every race. 

With courage, with enthusiasm, with a devotion 
never excelled, with an exaltation and purity of purpose 
never ecjualled, this grand army fought the battles of 
the Republic. For the preservation of this Naticjn, for 
the destruction of slavery, these soldiers, these sailors, 
on land and on sea, disheartened by no defeat, dis- 
couraged by no obstacle, appalled by no danger, neither 
paused nor swerved until a stainless flag, without a 
ri\al, floated o\er all our wide domain, and until every 
human being Ijeneath its folds was absolutely free. 

The great victory for human rights — the greatest 
of all the years — had been won ; won by the Union 
men of the North, bv the Union men of the vSouth, 
antl by those who had jjeen slaves. Liberty was 
national, Slavery was dead. 

The flag for which the heroes fought, for which 
they died, is the symbol of all we are, of all we 
hope to be. 



It is the emblem of equal rights. 

It means free hands, free hps, self-government and 
the sovereignty of the individual. 

It means that this continent has been dedicated 
to freedom. 

It means universal education, — light for every 
mind, knowledge for every child. 

It means that the school-house is the fortress 
of Liberty. 

It means that " Governments derive their just 
powers from the consent of the governed;" that each 
man is accountable to and for the Government ; that 
responsibility goes hand-in-hand with liberty. 

It means that it is the duty of every citizen to bear 
his share of the public burden, — to take part in the 
affairs .. of his town, his county, his State and his 
Country. 

It means that the ballot-box is the ark of the 
covenant ; that the source of authority must not be 
poisoned. 

It means the perpetual right of peaceful revolution. 

It means that every citizen of the Republic — native 
or naturalized — must be protected ; at home, in every 
State, — abroad, in every land, on every sea. 



ORyVTION. 23 

It means that all distinctions based on birth or 
blood, have perished from our laws ; that our Govern- 
ment shall stand between labor and capital, between 
the weak and the strong, between the individual and 
the corporation, between want and wealth, and give 
and guarantee simple justice to each and all. 

It means that there shall be a legal remedy for 
every wrong. 

It means National hospitality, — that we must 
welcome to our shores the e.xiles of the world, and 
that we may not drive them back. Some may be 
deformed by labor, dwarfed by hunger, broken in 
spirit, victims of tyranny and caste, — in whose sad 
faces may be read the touching record of a weary 
life ; and yet their children, born of liberty and love, 
will be symmetrical and fair, intelligent and free. 

That flag is the emblem of a supreme will, — of 
a Nation's power. Beneath its folds the weakest 
must be protected and the strongest must obey. It 
shields and canopies alike the loftiest mansion and the 
rudest hut. That flag was given to the air in the 
Revolution's darkest days. It represents the sufferings 
of the past, the glories yet to be ; and like the bow of 
heaven, it is the child of storm and sun. 



24 ORATION. 

This day is sacred to the great heroic host who 
kept this flag above our heads, — sacred to the hving 
and the dead — sacred to the scarred and maimed, — 
sacred to the wives who gave their husbands, to the 
mothers who gave their sons. 

Here in this peaceful huid of ours, — here where the 
sun shines, where flowers grow, where children play, 
millions of armed men battled for the right and 
breasted on a thousand fields the iron storms of war. 

These brave, these incomparable men, founded 
the first Republic. They fulfilled the prophecies ; 
they brought to pass the dreams ; they realized the 
hopes, that all the great and good and wise and just 
have made and had since man was man. 

But what of those who fell ? There is no language 
to express the debt we owe, the lo\'e we bear, to all the 
dead wifio died (ov us. W'ords are but barren sounds. 
\Ve can but stand beside their graves and in the 
hush and silence feel what speech has never told. 

They fought, they died ; and for the first time 
since man has kept a record of events, the heavens 
bent above and domed a land without a serf, a ser- 
vant, or a slave. 



Dec. 12, 1831. May 31, 1879. 

A TRIBUTE 

TO 

BBON C. INGERSOLL, 

BY HIS BROTHER ROBERT. 



Dec. 12, :83i. May 31, 1879. 

A TRIBUTE TO EBON C. INGERSOLL, 

BY HIS BROTHER ROBERT. 




EAR FRIENDS : I am going to do 
that which the dead oft promised he 
would do for me. 

The loved and loving brother, hus- 
band, father, friend, died where man- 
hood's morning almost touches noon, 
and while the shadows still were falling toward the 
west. 

He had not passed on life's highway the stone 
that marks the highest point ; but being weary for 
a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and using 
his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep 
that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love 
with life and raptured with the world, he passed to 
silence and pathetic dust. 



28 A TRIBUTE. 

Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, 
sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds 
are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen 
rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above 
a sunken ship. For whether in mid sea or 'mong the 
breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must 
mark the end of each and all. And every life, no 
matter if its every hour is rich with love and every 
moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become 
a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven 
of the warp and woof of mystery and death. 

This bra\'e and tender man in every storm of life 
was oak and rock ; but in the sunshine he was vine 
and flower. He Avas the friend of all heroic souls. 
He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far 
below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning 
of the grander day. 

He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, 
and music touched to tears. He sided with the 
weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly ga\-e 
alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands 
he faithfully discharged all public trusts. 

He was a worshipper of libertv, a friend of the 
oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote 



A TRIBUTE. 29 

these words ; " For Justice all place a temple, and all 
season, sininncr." He believed that happiness is 
the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only 
worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only 
priest. He added to the sum of human joy ; and 
were every one to whom he did some loving service 
to bring a blossom to his gra\e, he would sleep to- 
night beneath a wilderness of flowers. 

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren 
peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look 
beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only 
answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the 
voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no 
word ; but in the night of death hope sees a star and 
listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. 

He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the 
approach of death for the return of health, whispered 
WTth his latest breath, " I am better now." Let us 
believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and 
tears, that these dear words are true of all the count- 
less dead. 

The record of a generous life runs like a vine 
around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, 
unselfish act is now a perfumed flower. 



30 A TRIBUTE. 

And now, to you, who have been chosen, from 
among' the many men he loved, to do the hist sad 
office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. 

Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there 
is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man. 



A VISION OF WAR. 



■ A VISION OF WAR. 

Extran/rotn a speech delivered al /he Soldiers' Re-unio?i at Indiaiiapolis, 
Sept. 21, j8j6. 




blades, 



HE past rises before me like a dream. 
Again \\c are in the great struggle for 
national life. We hear the sounds of 
preparation — the music of boisterous 
drums — the silver voices of heroic 
bugles. We see thousands of assem- 
and hear the appeals of orators. We see 
the pale cheeks of \\'omen, and the flushed faces 
of men ; and in those assemblages we see all the 
dead \\hose dust we have covered with flowers. 
We lose sight of them no more. We are with 
them when they enlist in the great army of free- 
dom. We see them part with those they love. 
Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody 
places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the 
whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as 



34 A VISION OF WAP 

they lingeringly p^irt forever. Others are bending 
ov'er cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are 
receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting 
with mothers who hold them and press them to their 
hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and 
tears, tears and kisses — divine mingling of agony and 
love ! And some are talking with wives, and endeavor- 
ing with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive 
from their hearts the a\vful fear. We see them part. 
We see the wife standing in the door with the babe 
in her arms — standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the 
turn of the road a hand waves — she answers by hold- 
ing high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, 
and forever. 

We see them all as they march proudly away 
under? the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, 
wild music of war — marching down the streets of the 
great cities— through the towns and across the 
prairies — down to the fields of glory, to do and to die 
for the eternal right. 

We go with them, one and all. We are by their 
side on all the gory fields — in all the hospitals of pain 
' — on all the weary marches. We stand guard with 
them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. 



A X'lSIOX OF WAR. 35 

We are \\ith them in ravines running with blood — in 
the furrows of old fields. We are with them between 
contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, 
the life ebbing slowly away among the withered 
leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with 
shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind 
of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves 
of steel. 

We are with them in the prisons of hatred and 
famine ; but human speech can never tell what they 
endured. 

We are at home when the news comes that 
they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow 
of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of 
the old man bowed with the last grief 

The past rises before us, and we see four 
millions of human beings governed by the lash — 
we see them bound hand and foot — we hear the 
strokes of cruel whips — we see the hounds tracking 
women through tangled swamps. We see babes 
sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty un- 
speakable ! Outrage infinite ! 

Four million bodies in chains — four million souls 
in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, 



36 A \'ISION OF WAR. 

father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet 
of might. And all this was done under our own 
beautiful banner of the free. 

The past rises before us. We hear the roar and 
shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. 
These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we see 
men and women and children. The wand of progress 
touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping- 
post, and we see homes and firesides and school- 
houses and books, and where all was want and crime 
and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free. 

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty — 
they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep 
in the land they made free, under the flag they 
rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad 
hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing 
vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the 
clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in 
the windo\\iess palace of Rest. Earth may run red 
with other wars — the\- are at peace. In the midst 
of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the 
serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers 
living and dead : Cheers for the living ; tears for 
the dead. 



AT A CHILD'S GRAVB, 



AT A CHILD'S GRAVE. 




\ FRIENDS: I know how vain It is 
to s^ilcl a grief with words, and yet I 
wish to take from every grave its fear. 
Here in this world, \\ here hfe and 
death are equal kings, all should be 
bra\e enough to meet what all the 
dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, 
stained and polluted by the heartless past. From 
the wondrous tree of life the buds and blossoms fall 
with ri])encd fruit, and in the common bed of earth, 
patriarchs and babes sleep side by side. 

Why should we fear that \\hich will come to all 
that is ? We cannot tell, we do not know, w hich is 
the greater blessing — life or death. We cannot 
say that death is not a good. W'e do not kncnv 
whether the grave is the end of this life, or the 
door of another, or whether the night here is not 
somewhere else a dawn. Neither can we tell 



40 AT A CHILD S CRAVI-:. 

which is the more fortunate — the child dying in 
its mother's arms, l)ef()re its hps have learned to 
form a word, or he who journeys all the length of 
life's une\en road, ])ainfully taking the last slow 
steps 'with staff and crutch. 

li;\er\- cradle asks us " Wdience ? " and every 
coftin " W'hithei- ? " The poor barbarian, weeping 
al)o\-e his dead, can answer these questions just as 
well as the robed j)riest of the most authentic 
creed. The tearful ignorance of the one, is as con- 
soling as the learned and unmeaning words of 
the other. Xo man, standing where the horizon 
of a life has touched a gra\e, has any right to 
l)rophes)' a future filled with pain and tears. 

May be that death gives all there is of worth to 
life, if those we press and strain within our arms 
could ne\'er die, perhaps that lo\e would wither 
from the earth. May be this common fate treads 
from out the paths between our hearts the weeds 
of selfishness and hate. And I had rather live 
and lo\-e where death is king, than ha\-e eternal 
life where love is not. Another life is nought, 
unless we know and love again the ones who 
love us here. 



AT A CHILD S GKA\E. 41 

They who stand with breaking hearts around 
this httle grave, need have no fear. The larger 
and the nobler faith in all that is, and is to be, 
tells us that death, e\ en at its worst, is only perfect 
rest. We know that through the common wants 
of life — the needs and duties of each hour — their 
grief will lessen day by day, until at last this grave 
will be to them a place of rest and peace — almost 
of joy. There is for them this consolation : The 
dead do not suffer. If they live again, their lives 
will surely be as good as ours. We have no fear. 
We are all children of the same mother, and the 
same fate awaits us all. We, too, have our religion, 
and it is this: Help for the living — Hope for the 
dead. 



BENEFITS FOR INJURIES. 



^/^^ 




*0 render benefits for injuries is to ignore 
all distinctions between actions. He 
who treats his friends and enemies alike, 
has neither love nor justice. The idea 
of non-resistance never occurred to a 
man with power to protect himself. 
This doctrine was the child of weakness, born when 
resistance was impt)ssible. To allow a crime to be 
committed when you can prevent it, is next to com- 
mitting the crime yourself. And yet, under the 
banner of non-resistance, the Church has shed the 
blood of millions, and in the folds of her sacred vest- 
ment^ have gleamed the daggers of assassination. 
^\'ith her cunning hands she wove the purple for 
hypocrisy, and placed the crown upon the brow of 
crime. For a thousand years larceny held the scales of 
justice, while beggars scorned the princely sons of toil, 
and ignorant fear denounced the liberty of thought. 
My doctrine is this : For good, return good ; for evil, 
return justice without admixture of revenge. 



WE BUILD. 




S it nothinrr to free the mind ? Is it nothinc;- 
t(j civilize mankind ? Is it nothing to fill 
the world with light, w ith discovery, with 
science ? Is it nothing to dignify man 
and exalt the intellect ? Is it nothing to 
grope your way into the dreary prisons, 
the damp and dropping dungeons, the dark and 
silent cells of superstition, where the souls of men are 
chained to floors of stone ; to greet them like a ray 
of light, like the song of a bird, the murmur of a 
stream ; to see the dull eyes open and grow slowdy 
bright ; to feel yourself grasped by the shrunken and 
unused hands, and hear )'ourself thanked by a strange 
and hollow voice ? 

Is it nothing to conduct these souls gradually into 
the blessed light of day — to let them see again the 
happy fields, the sweet, green earth, and hear the 



44 WE BUILD. 

everlasting music of the waves ? Is it nothing to 
make men wipe the dust from their swollen knees, 
the tears from their blanched and furrowed cheeks ? 
Is it a small thing to reave the heavens of an insatiate 
monster and write upon the eternal dome, glittering 
with stars, the grand word — Frkedom ? 

Is it a small thing to rpicnch the flames of hell 
with the holy tears of pity ; to unbind the martyr 
from the stake ; break all the chains ; put out the fires 
of civil war ; stay the sword of the fanatic, and tear 
the bloody hands of the Church from the white throat 
of Science ? 

Is it a small thing to make men truly free — to de- 
stroy the dogmas of ignorance, prejudice and power 
— the poisoned foibles of superstition, and drive from 
the beautiful face of the earth the fiend of Fear ? 



A TRIBUTE 
TO THE REV. ALEXANDER CLARK. 




PON the grave of the Reverend Alex- 
ander Clark I wish to place one flower. 
LItterly destitute of cold, dogmatic 
pride, that often passes for the love 
^N|^ of God ; without the arrogance of the 
({}j (3 "elect"; simple, free, and kind — this 
earnest man made me his friend by being mine. I 
forgot that he was a Christian, and he seemed to 
forget that I was not, while each remembered that 
the other was at least a man. 

Frank, candid, and sincere, he practiced what he 
preached, and looked with the holy eyes of charity 
upon the failings and mistakes of men. He believed 
in the power of kindness, and spanned with divine 
sympathy the hideous gulf that separates the fallen 
from the jmre. 



46 A TRIBUTE. 

C.ixini;' iVocly tt) others the rights that he chiinied 
for himscH", it iic\cr occurred to him that his Ciod 
hated a hraxe and luMiest unbehexxT. He remem- 
bered that e\en an infidel had rights that loxe 
respects ; that hatred lias no sa\ing power, and that 
in order to be a Christian it is not necessar)- to 
become less than a human being. Me knew that no 
one can be maligned inlo kindness ; that epithets 
cannot con\ince ; that curses are not arguments, and 
that the finger of scorn never points towards heaven. 
With the generosity of an honest man, he accorded 
to all the fullest liberty of thought, knowing, as he 
did. that in the realm of mind a chain is but a curse. 

For this man I felt the greatest possible regard. 
In spite of the taunts and jeers of his brethren, he 
publicl}- proclaimed that he would treat infidels with 
fairness and respect; that he would endeavor to 
convince them by argument and win them with love. 
He insisted that the (iod he worshiped lo\ed the 
well-being e\'en of an atheist. In this grand position 
he stot)d almost alone. Tender, just, and lo\ing 
where others were harsh, vindictive, and cruel, he 
challenged the admiration of every honest man. A 
few more such clerovmen mi<'ht dri\e calumn\- from 



A TRIBUTE. 47 

the lips of faith and render the pulpit worthy of 
esteem. 

The heartiness and kindness with which this 
generous man treated me can never be excelled. 
He admitted that I had not lost, and could not lose, 
a single right 1)\' the expression of my honest thought. 
Neither did he believe that a servant could win the 
respect of a generous master by persecuting and 
maligning those whom the master would \villingly 
forgive. 

While this good man was li\"ing, his brethren 
blamed him for having treated me with fairness. 
But, I trust, now that he has left the shore touched 
by the mysterious sea that never yet has borne, on 
any wave, the image of a homeward sail, this crime 
will be forgiven him by those who still remain to 
preach the love of God. 

His sympathies were not confined within the 
prison of a creed, but ran out and over the walls like 
vines, hiding the cruel rocks and rusted bars with 
leaf and flower. He could not echo with his heart 
the fiendish sentence of eternal fire. In spite of book 
and creed, he read "between the lines" the words 
of tenderness and love, with promises for all the 



48 A TRIBUTE. 

world. Above, beyond, the dogmas of his churchy- 
humane even to the verge of heresy — causing some 
to doubt his love of God because he failed to hate 
his unbelieving fellow-men, he labored for the welfare 
of mankind, and to his work gave up his life with all 
his heart. 



THH GRANT BANOUKT, 



THE GRANT BANQUET 



Palmer House, Chicago, Thursday, November Jjth, iSjg. 



Thk Volunte 



■rwKLFTH toast: 




111-; Union, whose val 


K AND PAT 


rHE PEOPLE, AND 1-OR T 


ilE PEOPLE 




I EN the savagery of the lash, the bar- 
barism of the chain, and the insanity 
of secession confronted the ci\'ihzation 
of our country, the question " Will the 
great Republic defend itself?" trembled 
on the lips of every lover of mankind. 
The North, filled with intelligence and \vealth — 
children of liberty — Jiiarshaled her hosts and asked 
only for a leader. Erom civil life a man, silent, 
thoughtful, poised and calm, stepped forth, and with 
the lips of victory voiced the Nation's first and last 
demand : " Unconditional and immediate surrender." 
Erom that moment the end was known. That 
utterance was the first real declaration of real war, 
and, in accordance with the dramatic unities of 



52 THE GRANT BANQUET. 

mighty e\ents, the great soldier who made it, re- 
ceived the rinal ;,word of the rebelHon. 

The soldiers of the Republie \\ere not seekers 
after \ulgar glory. The\- were not animated by 
the hope of plunder or the lo\e of eonquest. They 
fought to preserxe the homestead of liberty and 
that their ehildi-en might ha\-e peace. They were 
the defenders of humanit}-, the destroyers of preju- 
dice, the breakers of chains, ami in the name of the 
future they slew the monster of their time. They 
finished \\hat the soldiers of the Re\olution com- 
menced. They re-lighted the torch that fell from 
their august hands and filled the world again with 
light. They blotted from the statute-books laws 
that had been passed by hypocrites at the instigation 
of rubbers, and tore with indignant hands from the 
Constitution that infamous clause that made men 
the catchers of their fellow-men. They made it 
possible for judges to be just, for statesmen to be 
humane, and for politicians to be honest. They 
broke the shackles from the limbs of slaves, from 
the souls of masters, and fi-(Hn the Northern brain. 
They kept our countr\- on the ma]) of the world, 
and our tiag in heaxen. Thev rolled the stone from 



THK GRANT HA\0UI:T. 53 

the sepulchre of procuress, and found therein two 
angels clad in sliining- garments — Nationality and 
Liberty. 

The soldiers were the saviors of the Nation ; 
they were the liberators of men. In writing the 
Proclamation of Emancipation, Lincoln, greatest of 
our mighty dead, whose memory is as gentle as 
the summer air when reapers sing amid the gath- 
ered sheaves, copied with the pen what Grant and 
his brave comrades wrote with swords. 

Grander than the Greek, nobler than the Roman, 
the soldiers of the Republic, with patriotism as 
shoreless as the air, battled for the rights of others, 
for the nobility of labor; fought that mothers might 
own their babes, that arrogant idleness should not 
scar the back of patient toil, and that our country 
should not be a many-headed monster made of 
warring states, but a Nation, sovereign, great, and 
free. 

Blood was water, money was leaves, and life 
was only common air until one flag floated over a 
Republic without a master and without a sla\'e. 

And then was asked the question : " Will a free 
people tax themselves to pay a Nation's debt?" 



54 THE GRANT BANQUEl. 

The soldiers went home to their waiting wives, 
to their glad ehildren, and to the girls they loved — 
they went baek to the fields, the shops, and mines. 
They had not been demoralized. They had been 
ennobled. They were as honest in peace as they 
had been jjrave in war. Mocking at poverty, 
laughing at reverses, they made a friend of toil. 
They said: "We saved the Nation's life, and 
what is life without honor?" They worked and 
wrought with all of labor's ro)-al sons that e\ery 
pledge the Nation ga\e might be redeemed. And 
their great leader, haxing put a shining band of 
friendship — a. girdle of clasped and happy hands — 
around the globe, comes home and finds that every 
promise made in war has now the ring and gleam 
of gold. 

There is another question still: — "Will all the 
wounds of war be healed?" I answer, yes. The 
Southern people must submit, — not to the dictation 
of the North, but to the Nation's will, and to the 
verdict of mankind. They were wrong, and the 
time will come when they will say that they are 
victors who have been vancjuished by the right. 
Freedom conquered them, and freedom will cultivate 



THE GRANT BAXOl'IiT. 55 

their fields, educate their children, \vca\e for them 
the robes of wealth, execute their laws, and fill 
their land with happy homes. 

The soldiers of the Union saved the South as 
well as the North. They made us a Nation. Their 
victory made us free and rendered tyranny in every 
other land as insecure as snow upon Aolcanoes' lips. 

And now let us drink to the volunteers — to 
those who sleep in unknown, sunken graves, whose 
names are only in the hearts of those they loved 
and left — of those who only hear in happy dreams 
the footsteps of return. Let us drink to those who 
died where lipless famine mocked at want ; to all 
the maimed whose scars give modesty a tongue; 
to all who dared and gave to chance the care and 
keeping of their lives ; to all the li\'ing and to all 
the dead, — to Sherman, to Sheridan, and to Grant, 
the laureled soldier of the world, and last, to Lincoln, 
whose loving life, like a bow of peace, spans and 
arches all the clouds of war. 



APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY. 



,^^^^^f LIBERTY, thou art the God of my 

&'iM^i idolatry ! Thou art the only Deity that 

" :'i^^^^^ hates the bended knee ! In thy vast 

]'S\'^y/Z''-- and unwalled temple, beneath the roof- 

"^t^Af-/"' less dome, star-gemmed and luminous 

^ with suns, thy worshipers stand erect ! 

They do not cringe, or crawl, or bend their foreheads 

to the earth. The dust has never borne the impress 

of their lips. 

L'pon thy altars mothers do not sacrifice their 
babes, nor men their rights. Thou askest nought 
from man except the things that good men hate, — the 
whip, the chain, the dungeon key. 

Thou hast no popes, no priests, who stand be- 
tween their fellow-men and thee. Thou carest 
not for slavish fcjrms, or selfish prayers. Thou 



58 l.lliKKTV. 

hasl no monks, no nuns, who in the name of duty 
munlei- jo\'. 

At lh\ saered shrine Hypocrisy does not bow, 
l"'ear does not crouch, Virtue does not tremble. 
Superstition's feeble tapers do not liurn, but Reason 
holds aloft her inextinguishable torch, whiU' on the 
cver-broadenini; brow of Science falls the ever- 
comiui;' mornini;' of the t'ver better da)'. 




\ TRIBUTE TO JOHN G. MILLS. 

GAIN we are face to face with the great 
mystery that shrouds this world. We 
^ question, but there is no reply. Out on 
the wide waste seas, there drifts no 
cTK spar. Over the desert of death the 
sphinx gazes forevx-r, but never speaks. 

In the very May of life another heart has ceased 
to beat. Night has fallen upon noon. But he 
lived, he loved, he was lovxd. Wife and children 
pressed their kisses on his lips. This is enough. 
The longest life contains no more. This fills the 
vase of joy. 

He who lies here, clothed with the perfect peace 
of death, was a kind and loving husband, a good 
father, a generous neighbor, an honest man, — and 
these words build a monument of glory above the 
humblest grave. He was always a child, sincere 
and frank, as full of hope as Spring. He divided 



6o A TRIHL'TH. 

all time inio to-day and lo-morrow. To-niorrovv 
was \\itlu)ut a cloud, and of to-niorrow he borrowctl 
sunshine for to-day. lie was ui\- friend. He will 
remain so. The liviuL;- oft become estranged ; the 
dead are true. lie was not a Christian. In the 
llden of his hope there did not crawl and coil the 
serpent of eternal pain. In many languages he 
sought the thoughts of men, and for himself he 
soheel the problems of the world. He accepted the 
philosophy of .\uguste Comte. Humanity was his 
(lod; the human race was his Supreme Being. In 
that Su[)reme Being he put his trust. He believed 
that we are indel)ted for what we enjoy to the labor, 
the self-denial, the heroism of the human race, and 
that as we ha\'e plucked the fruit of what others 
planted, we in thankfulness should plant for others 
yet to be. 

With him immortality was the eternal conse- 
quences of his own acts. He belie\ed that every 
pure thought, e\er\- disinterested deed, hastens the 
har\-est of uni\ersal gotxl. This is a religicm that 
enriches poverty ; that enables us to bear the sor- 
rows of the saddest life ; that peoples even solitude 
with the happy millions yet tt) live, — a religion born 



A TRIBUTE. 6 I 

not of selfishness and fear, but of love, of grati- 
tude, and hope, — a religion that digs wells to slake 
the thirst of others, and gladly bears the burdens of 
the unborn. 

But in the presence of death, how beliefs and 
dogmas wither and decay ! How loving words and 
deeds burst into blossom ! Pluck from the tree of 
any life these flowers, and there remain but the 
barren thorns of bigotry and creed. 

All wish for happiness beyond this life. All hope 
to meet again the loved and lost. In every heart 
there grows this sacred flower. Immortality is a 
word that Hope through all the ages has been whis- 
pering to Love. The miracle of thought we cannot 
understand. The mystery of life and death we 
cannot comprehend. This chaos called the world has 
never been explained. The golden bridge of life 
from gloom emerges, and on shadow rests. Beyond 
this we do not know. Fate is speechless, destiny is 
dumb, and the secret of the future has never yet 
been told. We love ; wc wait ; we hope. The more 
we love, the more we fear. Upon the tenderest heart 
the deepest shadows fall. All paths, whether filled 
with thorns or flowers, end here. Here success and 



62 A TRinrxn. 

failure arc' the same. The rai;- of wretchedness and 
the purj)le robe of power all difference and distinction 
lose in this democracy of death. Character sur\ives ; 
g'oodness lixes ; lo\e is immortal. 

.\nd yet to all a time may come when the fevered 
lips of life \\'\\\ long- for the cool, delicious kiss of 
death — when tiretl of the dust and glare of day we 
all shall hear with jin' the rustling garments of 
the night. 

What can we say of death ? What can we say 
oi' the dead ? Where the)- haxe gone, reason cannot 
go, and from thence rexelation has not come. But 
let us believe that over the cradle Xature bends 
and smiles, and lo\ingly alcove the dead in bene- 
diction holds her outstretched hands. 
/ 



THE WARP AXD WOOF. 




HE rise and set of sun, the birth and death 
of day, the dawns of silver and the dusks 
of gold, the wonders of the rain and 
snow, the shroud of winter and the many- 
colored robes of spring, the lonely moon 
with nightly loss or gain, the serpent 
lightning and the thunder s voice, the tempest's furj- 
and the breath of mom, the threat of storm and 
promise of the bow ; cathedral clouds with dome and 
spire, earthquake and strange eclipse, frost and fire, 
the snow-crowned mountains with their tongues of 
flame, the fields of space sown thick with stars, the 
wandering comets, the fixed and sleepless sentinels 
of night. — the marvels of the earth and air: the per- 
fumed flower, the painted wing, the waveless pool 
that held within its magic breast the image of the 



64 THE WARP AND WOOF. 

Startled face and the inverted sky, the mimic echo 
that nuule a i\cord in the viewless air; the pathless 
forests and the bou'ntlless seas, the ebb and flow of 
tides, the slow deej) breathing;- oi some vague and 
monstrous life, the miracle of birth, the myster)' of 
dream and death, and oxer all the silent and immeas- 
urable dome, — these were the warp ami woof, and 
at the loom sat Lt>ve and Taney, Hope and Fear, 
and wove the wondrc-us tapestries whereon we find 
pictures of g'ods and fairy lands and all the legends 
that were told when Nature rocked the cradle of the 
infant world. 



THE CEMETERY. 




X that vast cemeter}^ called the past, are 
most of the religions of men, and there, 
too, are nearly all their gods. The sacred 
temples of India were ruins long ago. 
Over column and cornice, over the painted 
and pictured walls, cling and creep the 
trailing vines. Brahma, the golden, with four heads 
and four arms ; \^ishnu, the sombre, the punisher 
of the wicked, with his three eyes, his crescent, and 
his necklace of skulls ; Siva, the destroyer, red with 
seas of blood ; Kali, the goddess ; Draupadi, the 
white-armed, and Chrishna, the Christ, all passed 
away and left the thrones of heaven desolate. Along 
the banks of the sacred Nile, I sis no longer Avander- 
ing weeps, searching for the dead Osiris. The 
shadow of Typhon's scowl falls no more upon the 
waves. The sun rises as of yore, and his golden 



66 THE CEMETERY. 

beams still smite the lips of Mcmnon, but Memnon 
is as voiceless as the Sphinx. The sacred fanes arc 
lost in desert sands ; the dusty mummies are still 
waiting for the resurrection promised by their priests, 
and the old beliefs, wrought in curiously sculptured 
sione, sleep in the mystery of a language lost and 
dead. Odin, the author of life and soul, Vili and 
Ve, and the mighty giant Vmir, strode long ago 
from the icy halls of the North ; and Thor, with iron 
glove and glittering hammer, dashes mountains to 
the earth no more. Broken are the circles and crom- 
lechs of the ancient Druids ; fallen upon the summits 
of the hills, and co\ered with the centuries' moss, 
are the sacred cairns. The divine fires of Persia and 
of the Aztecs, have died out in the ashes of the past, 
and |Jiere is none to rekindle, and none to feed the holy 
flames. The harp of Orpheus is still ; the drained 
cup of Bacchus has been thrown aside ; Venus 
lies dead in stone, and her white bosom heaves no 
"more with love. The streams still murmur, but no 
naiads bathe ; the trees still wave, but in the forest 
aisles no dryads dance. The gods have flown from 
high Olympus. Not even the beautiful women can 
lure them back, and Danae lies unnoticed, naked to 



THE CEMETERY. 67 

the Stars. Hushed forever are the thunders of Sinai ; 
lost are the voices (jf the prophets, and the land once 
flowing- with milk and honey is but a desert waste. 
One by one, the myths have faded from the clouds ; 
one by one, the phantom host has disappeared, 
and one by one, facts, truths and realities have taken 
their places. The supernatural has almost gone, 
but the natural remains. The gods have fled, but 
man is here. 

Nations, like individuals, have their periods of 
youth, of manhood and decay. Religions are the 
same. The same inexorable destiny awaits them 
all. The gods created by the nations must perish 
with their creators. They were created by men, and 
like men, they must pass away. The deities of one 
age are the by-words of the next. The religion 
of our day, and country, is no more exempt from 
the sneer of the future than the others have been. 
When India was supreme, Brahma sat upon the 
world's throne. When the sceptre passed to Egypt, 
Isis and Osiris received the homage of mankind. 
Greece, with her fierce valor, swept to empire, and 
Zeus put on the purple of authority. The earth 
trembled with the tread of Rome's intrepid sons, 



68 THE CRMHTERV. 

and love grasped with mailed hand the thunderbolts 
of hea\-en. Rome fell, and Christians, from her ter- 
ritory, with the red sword of \\ar ear^'ed out the 
ruling nations of the world, and now Christ sits 
upon the old throne. WHio will be his successor? 




ORIGINALITY. 



N argument is new until it has been 
answered. An argument is absolutely 
jy^ fresh, and has upon its leaves the dew 
of morning, until it has been refuted. 

All men have experienced, it may be, 
in some degree, what we call love. 
Millions of men have written about it. The subject 
of course is old. It is only the presentation that can 
be new. Thousands of men have attacked superstition. 
The subject is old, but the manner in which the facts 
are handled, the arguments grouped — these may be 
forever new. 

Millions of men have preached Christianity. Cer- 
tainly there is nothing new in the original ideas. 
Nothing can be new e.xcept the presentation, the 
grouping. The ideas may be old, but they may be 
clothed in new garments of passion ; they may be 



70 ORIGINALITY. 

given additional human interest. A man takes a fact, 
or an old subject, as a sculptor takes a rock : the rock 
is not new. Of this rock he makes a statue : the 
statue is new. And yet some orthodox man might 
say : " There is nothing new about that statue ; I 
knt)w the man that dug the rock ; I know the owner 
of the quarry." 

■ Substance is eternal ; forms are new. So in the 
human mind certain ideas, or in the human heart cer- 
tain passions, are forever old ; but genius forever 
gives them new forms, new meanings ; and this is the 
perpetual originality of genius. 



THEN AND NOW. 



?-#^ 




^IXCE the murder of Hypatia in the fifth 
century, when the poHshed blade of Greek 
philosophy was broken by the club of 
ignorant Catholicism, until to-day, su- 
perstition has detested every effort of 
reason. 

It is almost impossible to conceive of the com- 
pleteness of the victory that the church achie\-ed 
over philosophy. For ages science was utterly 
ignored ; thought was a poor slave ; an ignorant 
priest was master of the world ; faith put out the 
eyes of the soul ; reason was a trembling coward ; 
the imagination was set on fire of hell ; every human 
feeling was sought to be suppressed ; love was con- 
sidered infinitely sinful ; pleasure was the road to 
eternal fire, and God was supposed to be happy only 
when his children were miserable. The world was 



72 THEN AND NOW. 

governed by an Almighty's whim ; prayers could 
change the order of things, halt the grand procession 
of nature, — could produce rain, a\'ert pestilence, famine 
and death in all its forms. There was no idea of 
the certain ; all depended upon divine pleasure — or 
displeasure, rather ; heaven was full of inconsistent 
male\olence, and earth of ignorance. Everything 
was done to appease the divine wrath. Every public 
calamity was caused by the sins of the people ; 
generally by a failure to pay tithes. To the poor 
multitude, the earth was a kind of enchanted forest, full 
of demons ready to de\'our, and theological serpents 
lurking with infinite power to fascinate and torture 
the unhappy and impotent soul. Life to them was a 
dim and mysterious labyrinth, in which they wandered 
weary and lost, guided by priests as bewildered as 
themselves, without knowing that at every step the 
Ariadne of reason offered them the long lost clue. 

The very heavens were full of death ; the light- 
ning was regarded as the glittering vengeance of God, 
and the earth was thick with snares for the unwary 
feet of man. The soul was supposed to be crowded 
with the wild beasts of desire ; the heart to be totally 
corrupt, prompting onlv to crime. \'irtues were re- 



THEN AND NOW. 73 

garclcd as deadly sins in disi^uisc. There was a 
continual warfare being waged between the Deity 
and the Devil, for the possession of every soul ; the 
latter generally being considered victorious. The 
flood, the tornado, the \'olcano, were all evidences 
of the displeasure of heaven, and the sinfulness of 
man. The blight that withered, the frost that black- 
ened, the earthquake that devoured, were the 
messengers of the Creator. 

The world was governed by Fear. 

Against all the evils of nature, there was known 
only the defense of prayer, of fasting, of credulity, 
and devotion. Man in his helplessness endeavored 
to soften the heart of Ciod. The faces of the multi- 
tude were blanched with fear, and wet with tears. 
The world was the prey of hypocrites, kings and 
priests. 

My heart bleeds when I contemplate the suffer- 
ings endured by the millions now dead ; of those 
who lived when the world appeared to be insane ; 
when the heavens were filled with an infinite Hr)Rk()K 
who snatched babes with dimjjled hands and rosy 
cheeks from the white breasts of mothers, and dashed 
them into an abyss of eternal flame. 



74 THEN AND NOW. 

Slowly, like the coming of the dawn, came the 
grand truth that the universe is governed by law ; 
that disease fastens itself upon the good and upon the 
bad ; that the tornado cannot be stopped by counting 
beads ; that the rushing lava pauses not for bended 
knees, the lightning for clasped and uplifted hands, 
nor the cruel waves of the sea for prayer ; that paying 
tithes causes, rather than prevents, famine ; that pleas- 
ure is not sin ; that happiness is the only good ; that 
demons and gods exist only in the imagination ; that 
faith is a lullaby sung to put the soul to sleep; that de- 
votion is a bribe that fear offers to supposed power ; 
that offering rewards in another world for obedience in 
this, is simply buying a soul on credit ; that knowl- 
edge consists in ascertaining the laws of nature, and 
that^isdom is the science of happiness. 



VOLTAIRB, 



VOLTAIRE. 




HEN Voltaire was born, the Church 
ruled and owned France. It was a 
period of almost universal corruption. 
The priests were mostly libertines. The 
judges ^^■ere as cruel as venal. The 
royal palace was simply a house of 
assignation. The nobles were heartless, proud and 
arrogant, to the last degree. The common people 
were treated as beasts. It took the Church a thous- 
and years to bring about this happy condition of 
things. 

The seeds of the revolution were unconsciously 
being scattered by every noble and by every priest. 
They germinated in the hearts of the helpless. They 
were watered by the tears of agony. Blows began 
to bear interest. There was a faint longing for 
blood. Workmen, l)lackened by the sun, bent by 



78 VOLTAIRE. 

labor, looked at the white throats of scornful ladies 
and thought about cutting them. 

In those days, witnesses were cross-examined 
\\ith instruments of torture. The Church was the 
arsenal of superstition. Miracles, relics, angels and 
devils were as common as rags. Voltaire laughed 
at the evidences, attacked the pretended facts, held 
the bible up to ridicule, and filled Europe with indig- 
nant protests against the cruelty, bigotry, and in- 
justice of the time. 

He was a belie\er in God, and in some ingenious 
way excused this God for allowing the Catholic 
Church to exist. He had an idea that, originally, 
mankind were believers in one God, and practised all 
the virtues. Of course this was a mistake. He 
imagined that the Church had corrupted the human 
race. In this he was right. 

It mav be that, at one time, the Church relatively 
stood for progress, but when it gained power, it 
became an obstruction. The system of \^oltaire was 
contradictory. He described a being of infinite 
goodness, who not only destroyed his children with 
pestilence and famine, but allowed them to destroy 
each other. While rejecting the God of the Bible, 



VOLTAIRE. 79 

he accepted another God, who, to say the least, 
allowed the innocent to be burnt for loving him. 

Voltaire hated tyranny, and loved liberty. His ar- 
guments to prove the e.xistence of a God were just as 
groundless as those of the reverend fathers of his day 
to prove the divinity of Christ, or that Mary was the 
mother of God. The theologians of his time maligned 
and feared him. He regarded them as a spider does 
flies. He spread nets for them. They were caught, 
and he devoured them for the amusement and benefit 
of the public. He was educated by the Jesuits, and 
sometimes acted like one. 

It is fashionable to say that he was not profound. 
This is because he was not stupid. In the presence 
of absurdity he laughed, and was called irreverent. 
He thought God would not damn even a priest for- 
ever : — this was regarded as blasphemy. He en- 
deavored to prevent Christians from murdering each 
other and did what he could to civilize the disciples 
of Christ. Had he founded a sect, obtained control 
of some country, and burned a few heretics at slow 
fires, he would have won the admiration, respect 
and love of the Christian world. Had he only pre- 
tended to believe all the fables of antiquity, had he 



8o VOLT A I KH. 

mumbled Latin prayers, counted beads, crossed him- 
self, devoured the flesh of God, and carried fagots to 
the feet of philosophv in the name of Christ, he might 
ha\e been in hea\en this moment, enjoying a sight 
of the damned. 

Instead of doing these things, he wilfully closed 
his eyes to the light of the gospel, examined the 
bible for himself, advocated intellectual liberty, struck 
from the brain the fetters of an arrogant faith, 
assisted the weak, cried out against the torture 
of man, appealed to reason, endeavored to establish 
universal toleration, succored the indigent and de- 
fended the oppressed. 

These were his crimes. Such a man ( lod would 
not suffer to die in peace. If allowed to meet death 
witli^a smile, others might follow his example, until 
none would be left to light the holy fires of the auto 
da fe. It would not do for so great, so successful an 
enemy of the Church, to die without leaving some 
shriek of fear, some shuddering cry of remorse, 
some ghastly prayer of chattered horror, uttered by 
lips covered with blood and foam. 

He was an old man of eightv-four. He had been 
surrounded with the comforts of life ; he was a man 



VOLTAIRE. «I 

of wealth — of genius. Among the hterary men of 
the world, he stood first. God had allowed him 
to have the appearance of success. His last years 
were filled with the intoxication of flattery. He 
sto;xl at the summit of his age. The priests became 
anxious. They began to fear that God would forget, 
in a multiplicity of business, to make a terrible ex- 
am;jle of Voltaire. Toward the last of May, 1778, 
it was whispered in Paris that Voltaire was dying. 
Upon the fences of expectation gathered the unclean 
birds of superstition, impatiendy waiting for their 
prey. 

"Two days before his death, his nephew went to 
seek the cure of Saint Sulpice and the Abbe Gautier 
and l)rought them into his uncle's sick chamber, who 
being informed that they were there, 'Ah, well!' 
said Voltaire, ' give them my compliments and my 
thanks.' The Abbe sjjoke some words to him, ex- 
horting hini to patience. The cure of Saint Sulpice 
then came forward, having announced himself, and 
asked of Voltaire, elevating his voice, if he acknowl- 
edged the divinity of our Lord Jesus Ghrist. The 
sick man pushed one of his hands against the cure's 
coif, shoving him back, and cried, turning abruptly to 



82 VOLTAIRE. 

the Other side, ' Let me die in peace.' The cure 
seemingly considered his person soiled, and his coif 
dishonored, by the touch of the philosopher. He 
made the nurse give him a little brushing, and went 
out with the Abbe Gautier." 

He expired, says W'agniere, on the 30th of May, 
1778, at about quarter past eleven at night, with 
the most perfect tranquillity. Ten minutes before 
his last breath he took the hand of Morand, his valet 
de chambre. who was watching bv him, pressed it 
and said : " Adieu, m\- dear Morand, I am gone." 
These were his last w ords. 

From this death, so simple and serene, so natural 
and peaceful ; from these words so utterly destitute 
of cant or dramatic ttiuch, all the frightful pictures, 
alKthe despairing utterances, ha\e been drawn and 
made. From these materials, and from these alone, 
have been constructed all the shameless calumnies 
about the death of this great and wonderful man, 
compared with whom all of his calumniators, dead 
and li\ing. were and are but dust and vermin. 

More than a century ago Catholicism, w rapped 
in robes red with the innocent blood of millions, 
holding in her frantic clutch crowns and scepters, 



VOLTAIRE. 83 

honors antl gold, the keys of heaven and hell, 
trampling beneath her feet the liberties of nations, 
in the ])rt)ud moment of almost unixersal dominion, 
felt within her heartless breast the deadly dagger 
of X'oltaire. From that blow the Church never 
can recover. Livid with hatred, she launched her 
impotent anathema at the great destroyer, and igno- 
rant Protestants have echoed the curse of Rome. 

\'oltaire was the intellectual autocrat of his time. 
From his throne at the foot of the Alps, he pointed 
the finger of scorn at every hypocrite in Europe. 
He was the pioneer of his century. He was the 
assassin of superstition. Through the shadows of 
faith and fable, through the darkness of myth and 
miracle, through the midnight of Christianity, through 
the blackness of bigotry, past cathedral and dun- 
geon, past rack and stake, past altar and throne, 
he carried, with chixalric hands, the sacred torch of 
reason. 



LAZARUS. 




HAT became of La 



We never 



hear of him again. It seems to me 
that he would have been an object of 
great interest. People would have said: 
" He is the man who was once dead." 
Thousands would have inquired of him 
about the other world ; would have asked him where 
he was when he received the information that he was 
wanted on the earth. His experience would have 
been vastly more interesting than everything else in 
the New Testament. A returned traveler from the 
—one who had walked twice 
■would have been 
the most interesting of human beings. When he came 
to die again, people would have said : " He is not 
afraid ; he has had experience ; he knows what death 
is." But, strangely enough, this Lazarus fades into 
obscurity with " the wise men of the East," and with 
the dead who came out of their graves on the night 
of the crucifixion. 



shores of Eternity- 
through the valley of the shadow- 



WHAT IS WORSHIP ? 




pray 



O do justice ; to defend the right ; to be 
strength for the weak, — a shield for the 
defenceless ; to raise the fallen ; to keep 
the peace between neighbors and nations. 
This is worship. 

Work is worship. Labor is the best 
To fell the forest, to subdue the earth, to 
delve in mines for the love of woman. This is 
worship. 

To build a home, to keep a fire on the hearth, to 
fill with joy the heart of her who rocks the cradle of 
your child. This is worship. 

The poor ]:)oy ships before the mast — comes home 
and puts within his mother's hand a purse snatched 
from the peril of the sea. This is worship. 

The poor widow working night and day keeping 
the fatherless together, — bearing every burden for the 
lov^e of babes. This is worship. 



86 WHAT IS WORSHIP? 

The sad and weeping wife stays with and bears 
the insults of a brutal husband for the sake of little 
ones. This is worship. 

The husband, when his wife is prematurely old 
with grief and pain, sits by her bed and holds her 
thin wan hands as rapturously and kisses them as 
passionately as when they were dimpled. This is 
worship. 

The wife clings to the husband fallen, lifts him 
from the gutter of degradation, holds him to her heart 
until her love makes him once more a man. This is 
worship. 

The industrious father, the toiling, patient mother, 
practice every self-denial to educate their children, — 
to lift them with loving pride above themselves. This 
is ^worship. 

And when such children are ashamed of such 
parents because they are homely and wrinkled and 
ignorant, — this is blasphemy. 

The boy with his mother's kiss warm on his lips 
fights for his native land, — fights to free his fellow 
men, — dies by the guns. This is worship. 

He who loves, worships. 



HUMBOLDT. 




T the head of the great army of investiga- 
tors stood Humboldt — the serene leader 
of an intellectual host — a king by the 
suffrage of Science "and the divine right 
of Genius. 
And to-day we are not honoring some butcher 
called a soldier, some wily politician called a 
statesman, some robber called a king, nor some 
malicious metaphysician called a saint. We are 
honoring the grand Humboldt, whose victories were 
all achieved in the arena of thought ; who de- 
stroyed prejudice, ignorance and error — not men ; 
who shed light — not blood, and who contributed 
to the knowledge, the wealth, and the happiness 
of mankind. 

W^e honor him because he has ennobled our race; 
because he has contributed as much as any man 



b8 HUMBOLDT. 

living or dead, to the real prosperity of the world. 
We honor him because he has honored us, because 
he labored for others, because he was the most 
learned man of the most learned nation — because 
he left a legacy of glory to every human being. 

We associate the name of Humboldt with oceans, 
continents, mountains, and volcanoes ; with the great 
palms, the wide deserts, the snow-lipped craters 
of the Andes ; with primeval forests and European 
capitals ; with wildernesses and universities ; with 
savages and savans ; with the lonely rivers of un- 
peopled wastes ; with peaks and pampas and steppes 
and cliffs and crags — with the progress of the 
world — with every science known to man, and 
with every star glittering in the immensity of space. 

Humboldt adopted none of the soul-shrinking 
creeds of his day ; wasted none of his time in the 
stupidities, inanities and contradictions of theological 
metaphysics. He did not endeavor to harmonize the 
astronomy and geology of a barbarous people with 
the science of the Nineteenth Century. Never, for 
one moment, did he abandon the sublime standard 
of truth. He investigated, he studied, he thought, he 
separated the gold from the dross in the crucible of 



HUMBOLDT. 89 

his great brain. He was never found on his knees 
before the altar of superstition. He stood erect by 
the grand tranquil column of Reason. He was an 
admirer, a lover, an adorer of Nature, and at the 
age of ninety, bowed by the weight of nearly a 
century, covered with the insignia of honor, loved 
by a nation, respected by a world, with kings for 
his servants, he laid his weary head upon the 
bosom of the universal Mother — and with her arms 
around him, sank into that mysterious slumber known 
as death. 



GOD SILENT. 




HERIi is no recorded instance where the 
uplifted hand of murder has been par- 
ahzed — no truthful account in all the 
literature of the world, of the innocent 
shielded b)- Cod. Thousands of crimes 
are being committed every day. Men 
are, this moment, King in wait for their human prey. 
Wi\'es are whi|jped and crushed — drixen to insanity 
and death. Little chddren are begging" for merc\' — 
lifting imploring, tear-filled eyes, to the brutal faces 
of fathers and mothers. Sweet girls are being de- 
cei\'ed, lured and outraged ; but God has no time to 
prevent these things — no time to defend the good 
and to prtitect the pure. He is too busv numbering 
hairs and watching sparrows. 



ALCOHOL. 




BELIEVE that alcohol, to a certain de- 
gree, demoralizes those who make it, 
those who sell it, and those who drink it. 
I believe from the time it issues from the 
coiled and poisonous worm of the dis- 
tillery until it empties into the hell of 
crime, death, and dishonor, it demoralizes everybody 
that touches it. I do not believe that anybody can 
contemplate the subject without becoming prejudiced 
against this liquid crime. All you have to do is 
to think of the wrecks upon either bank of this stream 
of death — of the suicides, of the insanity, of the 
poverty, of the ignorance, of the distress, of the little 
children tugging at the faded dresses of weeping and 
despairing wi\'cs, asking for bread ; of the men 
of genius it has wrecked ; of the millions who have 



92 ALCOHOL. 

struggled with imaginary serpents produced by this 
deviUsh thing. And when you think of the jails, 
of the almshouses, of the prisons, and of the scaffolds 
upon either bank — I do not wonder that every 
thoughtful man is prejudiced against the damned 
stuff called alcohol. 



AUCxUSTE COMTE. 




iXABLE in some thinp^s to rise above the 
superstitions of his day, Comte adopted 
not only the machinery, but some of the 
prejudices, of Cathohcism. He made the 
mistake of Luther. He tried to reform 
the Church of Rome. Destruction is 
the onl)' reformation of which that church is capable. 
Ev'Cry religion is l)ased upon a misconception, not 
only of the cause of phenomena, but of the real object 
of life ; that is to say, upon falsehood ; and the 
moment the truth is known and understood, these 
relii^ions must fall. In the field of thought, they are 
briers, thorns, and noxious weeds ; on the shores of 
intellectual discovery, they are sirens, and in the 
forests that the l)ra\e thinkers are now penetrating, 
they are the wild beasts, fanged and monstrous. 
You cannot reform these weeds. Sirens cannot be 
changed into good citizens ; and such wild beasts, 



94 ' AUGUSTK CO.MTI'. 

c\cn wliLMi tamed, arc of no ])ossil)lc use. Destruc- 
tion is the only remedy. Reformation is a hospital 
where the new j)hiloso]jhy exhausts its streni;th 
nursini;" the old relig'it)n. 

There was, in the hrain of the ^reat Frenchman, 
the dawn of that happ)- da\' in which humanity will 
be the onl)' religion, gootl the onl\' god, happiness 
the only ohj^'ct, restitution the onh' atonement, 
mistake the only sin, and affection, guided ])y in- 
telligence, the only savior of mankind. This dawn 
illuminated the darkness of his life, and filled his eyes 
with ])i-oud ami tender tears. 

A few \-ears ago I asked the superintentlent of 
Fere La Chaise if he knew w here I could imd the 
tomb of Auguste Comte. He IkuI never heard even 
the 'liame of the author of the Fositixe I'hilosophy. 
I asked him if he had e\ er heard of Napoleon 
Bonaparte. In a half-insulted tone, he replied, "Of 
course I ha\"e, wh\' do \-ou ask me such a question?" 
"Simply," was my answer, "that I might have the 
opportunity of saN'ing, that when everything con- 
nected with Napoleon, e.\ce])t his crimes, shall have 
been forgotten, Auguste C\)mtc will be lovingly 
remembered as a benefactor of the human race." 



THE INFIDEL. 




that 



ijlcO effort has l)cen spared in any age of the 
world to crush out opposition. The 
Church used painting, music and archi- 
tecture, simply to de^^n-ade mankind. But 
there are men that nothing can awe. 
■['here ha\e l)een at all times brave spirits 
e\en the gods. Some proud head has 
always been aboxe the waves. In every age some 
Diogenes has sacrificed to all the deities. True 
genius never cowers, and there is always some 
Samson feeling for the pillars of authority. 

Cathedrals and domes, and chimes and chants : 
temples frescoed and groined and carxetl, and gilded 
with gold; altars and tapers, and paintings of\irgin 
and babe ; censer and chalice, chasuble, paten and 
alb ; organs, and anthems and incense rising to the 
winged and blest ; maniple, amice and stole ; crosses 



9D THE INFIDEL 

and crosiers, tiaras and crowns ; mitres and missals 
and masses ; rosaries, relics and robes ; martyrs and 
saints, and windows stained as with the blood of 
Christ — never, for one moment awed the brave, 
proud spirit of the Infidel. He knew that all the 
pomp and glitter had been purchased with Liberty — 
that priceless jewel of the soul. In looking at the 
cathedral he remembered the dungeon. The music 
of the organ was not loud enough to drown the clank 
of fetters. He could not forget that the taper had 
lighted the fagot. He knew that the cross adorned 
the hilt of the sword, and so where others worshiped, 
he wept. 




NAPOLEON. 



LITTLE while ago, I stood by the grave 
of the old Napoleon — a magnificent tomb 
of gilt and gold, fit almost for a deity 
dead — and gazed upon the sarcophagus 
of rare and nameless marble, where rest 
at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over 
the balustrade and thought about the career of the 
greatest soldier of the modern A\-orld. 

I saw him walking upon the l)anks of the Seine, 
contemplating suicide. I sa\\- him at Toulon — I saw 
him j)utting down the mob in the streets of Paris — 
I saw him at the head of the army of Italy — I saw 
him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color 
in his hand — 1 saw him in Egypt in the shadows 
of the pyramids — I saw him conquer the Alps and 
mingle the eagles of Prance with the eagles of the 



90 NAPOLEON. 

crags 

I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow 
and the cavahy of the wild blast scattered his legions 
like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic 
in defeat and disaster — driven by a million bayonets 
back upon Paris — clutched like a wild beast — banished 
to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire 
by the force cif his genius. I saw him upon the 
frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate 
combined to wreck the fortunes of their former 
king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands 
crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and 
solemn sea. 

I thought of the orphans and widows he had 
made — of the tears that had been shed for his glory, 
and^of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed 
from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And 
I said, I would rather have been a French peasant 
and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived 
in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the 
grapes growing purple in the amorous kisses of the 
Autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor 
peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting 
as the day died out of the sky — with my children 



NAPOLEON. 99 

upon my knees and their arms about me — I would 
rather have been that man, and gone down to the 
tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have 
been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, 
known as Napoleon the Great. 



Till' RFJ'UIUJC. 




'f/N the rc])ul)lic of miiul, one is a majoritv. 
There, all are luonarehs, aiul all are c(|uals. 
The Ivrannx' of a inajorit\' e\en is un- 
known, r.aeh one is erowneel, seepterecl 
and throned. L^pon e\'ei"\- hrow" is the 
tiara, and around e\'ei'\' form is the im- 
perial ]:)iu'ple. ()nl\' those are i^ood eiti/ens who 
ex|jress their honest thoui^hts, and those who perseeute 
for oiMuion's sake, are the onl\- traitors. There, 
nothing" is considereil infamous except an a])i)eal tt) 
brute force, antl nothin;^' sacreil but lo\-e, Iibert^^ and 
joy. 'Idle church contemplates this re])ul)lic with a 
sneer. rrt)m the teeth of hatretl she draws back the lij)s 
of scorn. She is tilled with the spite and spleen born of 
intellectual weakness. Once she was egotistic; now she 
is en\-ious. Once she w ore upon her Iiollow breast false 
t!,"ems. supposing' them to be real. Thex' ha\e been 
shown t(~) be false, but she wears them still. She has 
the malice of the cau'>"ht, the hatretl of the exposed. 



DAWN OF IHE NEW DAY. 




impossible. 



EYOND the universe there is nothing, 
and within the unixerse the supernatural 
does not and eannot exist. 

The moment these great truths are 
understood and admitted, a belief in 
general or special providence becomes 
Prom that instant men will cease their 
vain efforts to please an imaginary being, and will 
give their time and attention to the affairs of this 
world. They will abandon the idea of attaining 
any object by prayer and supplication. The ele- 
ment of uncertainty will, in a great measure, be 
remcned from the domain of the future, and man. 
gathering courage from a succession of victories 
o\-er tlie obstructions of nature, will attain a serene 
grandeur unknown to the disciples of any super- 
stition. The i)lans of mankind will no longer be 



I02 DAWN OF THE NEW DAY. 

interfered with by the finger of a supposed omnipo- 
tence, and no one will believe that nations or indi- 
viduals are protected or destroyed by any deity 
whatever. Science, freed from the chains of pious 
custom and evangelical prejudice, will, within her 
sphere, be supreme. The mind will investigate with- 
out reverence, and publish its conclusions without 
fear. Agassiz will no longer hesitate to declare the 
Mosaic cosmogony utterly inconsistent with the 
demonstrated truths of geology, and will cease pre- 
tending any reverence for the Jewish scriptures. The 
moment science succeeds in rendering the church 
powerless for evil, the real thinkers wall be outspoken. 
The little flags of truce carried by timid philosophers 
will disappear, and the cowardly parley will give place 
to Victory — lasting and universal. 



REFORMERS. 




OST reformers have infinite confidence 
in creeds, resolutions and laws. They 
think of the common people as raw 
material, out of wdiich they propose 
to construct institutions and govern- 
ments, like mechanical contrivances, 
where each person will stand for a cog, rope, wheel, 
pulley, or bolt, and the reformers will be the mana- 
gers and directors. They forget that these cogs and 
wheels ha\-e opinions of their own ; that they fall 
out with other cogs, and refuse to turn with other 
wheels ; that the pulleys and ropes ha\'e ideas pecu- 
liar to themselves, and delight in mutiny and revolu- 
tion. These reformers have theories that can only 
be realized when other people have none. 

Some time, it will be found that people can be 



104 REFORMKRS. 

changed only by changing their surroundings. It 
is alleged that, at least ninety-five per cent, of the 
criminals transported from England to Australia and 
other penal colonies, became good and useful citizens 
in a new world. Free from former associates and 
associations, from the necessities of a hard, cruel, 
and competitive civilization, they became, for the 
most part, honest people. This immense fact throws 
more light up(Mi social tjuestions than all the theories 
of the world. All people are not able to support 
themselves. They lack intelligence, industry, cunning 
— in short, cai)acity. They are continually falling 
by the way. In the midst of plenty, they are hungry. 
Larceny is born of want and opportunity. In pas- 
sion's storm, the will is wrecked upon the reefs and 
rocks of crime. 

The complex, tangled web of thought and dream, 
of perception and memory, of imagination and judg- 
ment, of wish, and will, and want — the woven 
wonder of a life — has ne\'er yet been raveled back 
to simple threads. 

Shall we not become charitable and just, when 
we know that every act is but condition's fruit ; that 
Nature, with her countless hands, scatters the seeds 



RKl-Ok.MERS. 



105 



of tears and crimes — of every \irtLie and of every 
joy; that all the l)ase and vile are victims of the 
l>lind, and that the «;o()d and great have, in the 
lottery of life, by chance or fate, drawn heart and 
brain ? 



THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 




T is not true that man was once perfectly 
pure and innocent, and became degenerate 
by disobedience. The real truth is, and 
the history of man shows, that he has 
advanced. Events, like the pendulum of a 
clock, have swung forward and backward, 
but after all, man, like the hands, has gone steadily 
on. Man is growing grander. He is not degenerating. 
Nations and individuals fail and die, and make room 
for higher forms. The intellectual horizon of the 
world widens as the centuries pass. Ideals grow 
stronger and purer ; the difference between justice and 
mercy becomes less and less; liberty enlarges, and love 
intensifies as the years sweep on. The ages of force 
and fear, of cruelty and wrong, are behind, and the 
real Eden is beyond. It is said that a desire for knowl- 
edge lost us the Eden of the past ; but whether that is 
true or not, it will orive us the Eden of the future. 



THOMAS PAINB. 



THOMAS PAINE. 




"^^^"' IIOMAS PAINE was born in Thetford, 
iingland. He canic from the common 
peo])lc. At the a^e of tliirty-seven he 
left linglancl for America. He was the 
first to perceive the destiny of the 
New World. He wrote the pamphlet 
" Common Sense,'" and in a few months the Con- 
tinental Congress declared the colonies free and 
independent States. A new nation was boril Paine 
having aroused the spirit of independence, gave every 
energy of his soul to keep that spirit alive. He was 
with the army. He shared its defeats and its glory. 
When the situation became desperate, he gave them 
" The Crisis." It was a pillar of cloud by day and 
of fire by night, leading the way to freedom, honor, 
and victory. 

The writings of Paine are gemmed w ith compact 
statements that carry conviction to the dullest. Day 



no THOMAS PAINE. 

and night he labored for America, until there was " a 
government of the people and for the people." At 
the close of the Revolution, no one stood higher than 
Thomas Paine. Had he been willing to live a hypo- 
crite, he would have been respectable, he would have 
died surrounded by other hypocrites, and at his death 
there would have been an imposing funeral, with 
miles of carriages, filled with hypocrites, and above 
his hypocritical dust, there would have been a hypo- 
critical monument covered with hypocritical praise. 

Ha\-ing done so much for man in America, he 
went to France. The seeds sown by the great 
infidels were bearing fruit in Europe. The Eighteenth 
Century was crowning its gray hairs with the wreath 
of progress. Upon his arrival in France he was 
elepted a member of the French Convention — in fact, 
he was selected about the same time by the people of 
no less than four Departments. He was one of the 
committee to draft a Constitution for France. In the 
Assembly, where nearly all were demanding the 
execution of the king, he had the courage to vote 
against death. To vote against the death of the 
king was to vote against his own life. This was the 
sublimity of devotion to principle. For this he was 



THOiMAS PAL\E. Ill 

arrested, imprisoned, and doomed to death. While 
under tlie sentence of death, while in the gloomy cell 
o\' his j)rison, Thomas Paine wrote to Washington, 
asking him to say one word to Robespierre in favor 
of the author of " Common Sense." Washington 
did nt)t repl)'. lie wrote again. The answer was 
silence. In the calmness of power, the serenity of 
fortune, Washington, the President, read the recjuest 
of Paine, the prisoner, and with the complacency of 
assured fame, consigned to the waste-basket of forget- 
fulness the patriot's cry for help. 

" Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, 

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. 

Those scraps are good deeds past which are devour'd 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 

As done." 

In this controversy, my sympathies are with the 
prisoner. 

Thomas I^aine, having done so much for political 
liberty, turned his attention to the superstitions of his 
age. He published "The Age of Reason;" and 
from that day to this, his character has been maligned 
by almost every priest in Christendom. He has 
been held up as the terrible example. Every man 



112 THOMAS I'AINi;. 

who has expressed an honest thouj^dit, has been 
warningly referred to Thomas Tainc. All his ser- 
viees were forgotten. \o kind word fell from any 
pulpit. His devotion to })i-iiiciple, his zeal for human 
rights, were no longer remembered. Paine simply 
took the ground that it is a contradietion to call a 
thing a rexclation that comes to us second-hand. 
There can be no re\elation be}'ond the first com- 
munication. All after that is hearsay. He also 
showed that the prophecies of the Old Testament 
had no relation whatever to Jesus Christ, and con- 
tended that Jesus Christ was simply a man. In other 
words, Paine was an enlightened Ihiitarian. Paine 
tht)Ught the Old Testament too Ijarbarous to have 
been the work of an infinitely benex'olent God. He 
attcTcked the doctrine that saKation depends uj)on 
belief He insisted that every man has the right 
to think. 

After the publication of these \iews every false- 
hood that malignity could coin and malice pass was 
gi\'en to the world. On his retui-ii to .\merica, after 
the election to the Presidenc\' of another infidel, 
Thomas Jefferson, it was not safe for him to appear 
in the pul)lic streets. He was in danger of being 



THOMAS PAINE. 113 

mobbed. Under the \'ery Hag he had helped to 
])Ut ill hea\en his rii;hts were not respeeted. Under 
the Constitution that he had suggested, his hfe was 
inseeure. He had lielped to give liberty to more 
than three millions of his fellow-citizens, and they 
were willing to deny it unto him. He was tleserted, 
ostracized, shunned, maligned, and cursed. He en- 
joyed the seclusion of a leper ; ])ut lie maintained 
through it all his integrity. He stood by the con- 
victions of his mind. Never for one moment did he 
hesitate or wa\er. 

He died almost alone. The moment he died 
Christians commenced manufacturing horrt)rs for 
his death-bed. They had his chamber filled with 
devils rattling chains, and these ancient falsehoods 
are perpetually certified to by the respectable Chris- 
tians of the present day. The truth is, he died as he 
had lived. Some ministers were impolite enough to 
visit him against his will. Several of them he 
ordered from his room. A couple of Catholic priests, 
in all the meekness of hypocrisy, called, that they 
might enjoy the agonies of a dying friend of man. 
Thomas Paine, rising in his bed, the few embers 
of expiring life blown into ilame by the breath of 



114 THOMAS PAINE. 

iiulignalioii, hatl the j^oodiicss to curse tbeni both. 
His physician, who seems to ha\e been a med- 
dling fool, just as the ct)ld hand was touching" the 
patriot's heart, whispered in the dull ear of the 
dying patriot: "Do you believe, or do }ou wish 
to belie\e, that Jesus Christ is the son of Ciod ? " 
And the reply was : " I ha\e no wish to believe 
on that subject." 

These were the last remembered words of Thomas 
Paine. He died as serenely as ever mortal passed 
away. lie died in the full possession of his mind, 
and on the \er\' brink and edge of death, proclaimed 
the doctrines of his life. 

Every Christian, every philanthropist, every be- 
liever in human liberty, should feel under obligation 
to Thomas Paine for the splendid service rendered 
by him in the darkest days of the American Revolu- 
tion. Ill the mitlnight of Valley Forge, "The Crisis" 
was the first star that glittered in the wide horizon 
of despair. E\-cry good man should remember with 
gratitude the bra\'e words spoken by Thomas Paine 
in the French CcMuention against the death o( Louis. 
He said : " \\'c will kill the king, not the man. We 
will tlcstro)- monarchy, not the monarch." 



TIKIMAS TAINI'. II5 

Thomas Paine was a clianipion, in both hemis- 
pheres, of human hherty ; one of the fouiulers and 
fathers of this Reinibhc; one of the foremost men of 
his age. He never wrote a word in favor of injustice. 
lie \\as a despiscr of slavery. He abhorred tyranny 
in every form. He was, in the widest and best sense, 
a friend of all his race. His head was as clear as 
his heart was good, and he had the courage to 
speak his honest thought. 

He was the first man to wa'ite these words : " The 
United States of America." He proposed the |)resent 
I-'ederal Constitution, and furnished every thought 
that now glitters in the Declaration of Indei)endence. 

Thomas Paine \vas one of the intellectual heroes 
— one of the men to whom we are indebted. His 
name is associated forever with the Great Re|)ublic. 
As long as free government exists he will be re- 
membered, admired and honored. 

He lived a long, laborious ajid useful life. The 
world is l)etter for his haxing lixed. For the sake 
of truth he accepted hatred and re])roach for his 
portion. He ate the l)itter bread of sorrow. His 
friends wire untrue to liim because he was true to 
himself, and true to them. He lost the respect of 



Il6 THOMAS PAINE. 

what is called society, but kept his own. His life is 
what the world calls failure and what history calls 
success. 

If to love your fellow-men more than self is 
goodness, Thomas Paine was good. If to be in 
advance of your time — to be a pioneer in the direc- 
tion of right — is greatness, Thomas Paine was 
great. If to avow your principles and discharge 
your duty in the presence of death is heroic, Thomas 
Paine was a hero. 

At the age of seventy-three, death touched his 
tired heart. He died in the land his genius defended 
— under the flag he gave to the skies. Slander can- 
not touch him now — hatred cannot reach him more. 
He sleeps in the sanctuary of the tomb, beneath the 
quiet of the stars. 



THE AGE OF FAITH. 




^?()R a thousand years faith reigned, with 
scarcely a rebelhous subject. Her tem- 
ples were "carpeted with knees," and 
the wealth of nations adorned her count- 
less shrines. The great painters prosti- 
tuted their genius to immortalize her 
vagaries, while the poets enshrined them in song. 
At her bidding, man covered the earth with blood. 
The scales of Justice were turned with her gold, and 
for her use were in\-ented all the cunning instruments 
of pain. She built cathedrals for God, and dungeons 
for men. She peopled the clouds with angels and the 
earth with slaves. The veil between heaven and 
earth was always rent or lifted. The shadows of 
this world, the radiance of heaven, and the glare 
of hell mixed and mingled until man became un- 
certain as to which country he really inhabited. Man 



1 l8 TIIK ACV ()!• lAl 111. 

tlwrlt in an iinii.il woiKl. lli' mistook his ideas, his 
(hxanis, lor \ca\ thins^s. His Icars hi'camc terrible 
aiul maheioiis monsters. lie h\ecl in tiie mitlst ot 
tmit'S and laiiies, n\ni|)hs and n.iiatls, L;c»liHns anil 
l^hosts, witehes antl w izartls, sprites and spooks, 
deities and de\ iks. Tlie t)hseure and glooni\' deptlis 
were liiled with ekiw and wint;' — with luak antl 
hoot', with leerim;- looks and sneerins.;- mouths, with 
the maliet' of delormitx', w ith the cunnin<; of hatretl, 
and with all the slim\- lorms that fear ean draw and 
l)aint upon tlu^ shadow \ ean\as ot the tlaik. 

It is cnoui;h to make' (^uc almost insane- w ith i)it\' 
to think what man in the K>ni;- nij;ht has suffert'd ; of 
tlu' tortures he has entlurod, surrouiuiid, as he suj)- 
j)osed, \i\ malii^nant powers, anil elutehed h\ the tieree 
plvrfntcMiis of the air. No wonder that he fell uptui his 
tremhlinL; kiu-es — that he Iniilt altars and reddened 
them e\in with his own Mood, Xo wonder that he 
implored ii^norant pi'iests and impudent mai;ieians l\>r 
aid. \o wdiulei- th.it he er.iw led s^roxelin;.;- in the 
ilust to the tempK's door, and there, in the insanity 
of despair, besought the deaf gods to hear his bitter 
cry of agony and fear. 



ORIGIN (W RIiLK^ON. 



' !^' Yfa^lr AN, in liis ii^iioraiuc, supposed that 

Jail plu'iioiiu'iia were produced by sonic 
^ intcllii;'ciit jjowcrs, and w ith direct w.f- 
5 creiice to him. 'l"o prescrxc friendly 

i) fM-^"! , . -1.1 1 

J ^f^y^ C relations with these powers was, and 
Q '^ still is, the ol)jeet of all relij^^^ions. 

Man knelt throuj^h fear and to implore assistance, or 
throui^h gratitude for some faxor which he supposed 
had been rendered. lie endeavored by su|)plication 
to a|)pease some bcini;- who, for some reason, had, as 
he believed. Income enraged, 'i'he li^htniiiL;- and 
thunder terrified him. In the presence of the xolcano 
he sank u])on his knees. The ^reat fori:sts filled 
with wild and ferocious beasts, the monstrous ser- 
l)ents crawling- in mysterious de])ths, the boundless 
sea, the flaminp^ comets, the sinister c:clipses, the 
awful calmness of the stars, and, more than all, the 



I20 ORIGIN OF RELIGION. 

perpetual presenee of death, convinced him that he 
was the sport and prey of unseen and mahgnant 
powers. The strange and frightful diseases to which 
he was subject, the freezings and burnings of fever, 
the contortions of epilepsy, the sudden palsies, the 
darkness of night, and the w ild, terrible and fantastic 
dreams that filled his brain, satisfied him that he 
was haunted and pursued by countless spirits of evil. 
For some reason he supposed that these spirits 
diftered in power — that they were not all alike male\o- 
lent — that the higher controlled the lower, and that 
his very existence depended upon gaining the as- 
sistance of the more powerful. For this purpose 
he resorted to prayer, to flattery, to worship and 
to sacrifice. 

,To pacify these spirits was considered of infinite 
importance. The poor barbarian, knowing that men 
could be softened by gifts, gave to these spirits that 
which to him seemed of the most value. With 
bursting heart he would off"er the blood of his dearest 
child. It was impossible for him to conceive of a god 
utterly unlike himself, and he naturally supposed that 
these powers of the air would be affected a little at 
the sight of so great and so deep a sorrow. It was 



with the l)arbarian then as with the civihzed now — 
one class lived upon and made merchandise of the 
fears of another. Certain persons took it upon them- 
sehes to appease the gods, and to instruct the people 
in their duties to these unseen powers. This was 
the origin of the priesthood. The priest pretended 
to stand between the wrath of the gods and the help- 
lessness of man. He was man's attorney at the court 
of heaven. He carried to the invisible world a flag 
of truce, a protest and a request. He came back 
with a command, with authority and with power. 
Man fell upon his knees before his own servant, and 
the priest, taking advantage of the awe inspired by 
his supposed influence with the gods, made of his 
fellow-man a cringing hypocrite and slave. 



THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 




DDI^N your hands with human blood; 
bhist by slander the fair fame of the inno- 
cent; strangle the smiling child upon its 
mother's knees; decei\e, ruin and desert 
the lieautiful girl who lo\'es and trusts 
vou, and your case is not hopeless. Eor 
all this, and for all these, you may be forgiven. Eor all 
this, and for all these, that bankrupt court established 
by the gospel, will gi\-e you a discharge; but deny 
the existence of these di\ine ghosts, of these gods, and 
the sweet and tearful face of Mercy becomes li\-id with 
eternal hate. IIea\en's golden gates are shut, and 
you, with an inhnite curse ringing in your ears, with 
the brand of infamy upon your brow, commence 
your endless wanderings in the lurid gloom of hell — 
an immortal \'agrant, an eternal outcast, a deathless 
convict. 




THE OLIVIL BRANCH. 

1877. 



f li ha\-c f()Ui;'ht 



md hated cn()U_<j;h. Our 
country is prostrate. Lal)()r is in rags. 
Energy has empty hands. The wheels 
of the factory are still. In the safe of 
prudence, money lies locked by the key 
of fear. Confidence is what we need — 
confidence in each other; confidence in our institu- 
tions, in our form of government, in the great future ; 
confidence in law, confidence in liberty, in progress, 
and in the grand destiny of the great Republic. 

I extend to you each and all the olive branch of 
peace. Fellow citizens of the South, I beseech you 
to take it. I^y the memory of those who died for 
naught; by the charred remains of your remembered 
homes ; by the ashes of vour statesmen dead ; for the 
sake of your sons and \^our daughters and their fair 
children yet to be, I implore you to tike it, with 



124 



THE OLIVE BRANCH. 



K)ving and with IonmI hands. It will cultivate your 
wasted ticlds. It will rebuild your towns and cities. 
It will fill your cofters with gold. It will educate 
your children. It will swell the sails of your com- 
merce. It will cause the roses of joy to clamber and 
climb over the broken cannon of war. It will fiood 
the cabins of the freedmen with light, and clothe the 
weak in more than coat of mail, and wrap the poor 
and lowly " in measureless content." 

Take it ! The North will forgive if the South will 
forget. Take it ! The negro will wipe from the tablet 
of memory the strokes and scars of two hundred 
years, and blur with happy tears the record of his 
wrongs I Take it ! It will unite our Nation ; it 
will make us brothers once again. Take it ! and 
justice will sit in your courts under the outspread 
wings of peace. Take it ! and the brain and lips of 
the future will be free. Take it ! It will bud and 
blossom in your hands and fill your land with 
fragrance and with joy. 



FREE WILL. 




T is insisted that man is free, and is re- 
sponsible, because he knows right from 
wrong'. But the compass does not navi- 
gate the ship ; neither does it in any way, 
of itself, determine the direction that is 
taken. When winds and waves are too 
powerful, the compass is of no importance. The 
pilot may reatl it correctly, and may know the direc- 
tion the ship ought to take, l)Ut the compass is not a 
force. So men, blown by the tempests of passion, 
may have the intellectual conviction that they should 
go another way ; but of what use, of what force, 
is the conviction ? 

Thousands of persons have gathered curious statis- 
tics for the purpose of showing that man is absolutely 
dominated by his surroundings. By these statistics 



126 



I'RF.l' Wli. 



is (liscoxiMTil w hat is calKd " tiic law of a\ cra<;x'." 
'riu'v show ihal thcic arc about so mail)- suicitk'S in 
Loiulon t.'\ cTN WAV, so main letters inisthrcctcil at 
Paris, so inan\' incii unilin>; thtnisch cs in niai-iia;^c 
with women oKKr than tluinseh cs in lUlL^iuni, so 
nian\- huri^laiaes to one nunxler in i'ranee, or so many 
persons (.irixcn insane l)\- reH;^ion in the United 
States. It is assertiil that these facts eonehisix el\- 
show that man is aetid upon ; that, hehinti each 
thought, I'.u h (.heam, is the effieient cause, antl that 
the doctrine (A' moral rcsponsibiHl)' has been dc- 
stroNcd b\' statistics. 

lUil, does the fict lliat about so many crimes arc 
committeil on the .i\ er,i_i;e, in a i;i\ en popul.ilion. or 
th.it so m.niN .ni\ thini;s .ue done, pro\ e tluit there is 
no freedom in hum.m action ? 

Suppose a popul.ilion o\ ten thous.uul persons; 
and suppose, further, th.il the\ aw free, .uul th.it the\' 
h.i\e the UMi.il w.mts ol m.mkind. Is it not rc.ison- 
able to s.i\ th.it the\- would ,u t in some waN' ? They 
cert.iinU w ould take mcasui-es to obl.iin Uhx\, clothing', 
and shelter. If thest- pcitple dilfired in intellect, in 
surroundiip^s. in tempcr.iment. in strength, it is re.ison- 
able to suppose lh.it .ill would not be ciju. illy sue- 



i'Ki;i'; WILL. 1 27 

ccssful. Under such tii-cunistauccs, may \vc not 
safely infer that, in a liulc while, if the statistics were 
proijerly taken, a law of a\(iai;e wcnild appear? In 
other words, U'cc people would act; and, Ijeinij; diffci-- 
ent in mind, hod)-, and circumstances, would not all 
act exacll)' alike. ;\ll would not \)c alike aitcd U|)on. 
The de\iations h-om what mii;ht ])c thought wise, or 
|-ii;lu, would sustain such a relation to time and 
lunubers that the\' eould be expressed by a law of 
averaj^e. If this is true, the law of average does not 
establish necessity. 

l)Ut, in my supposed case, the people, after all, are 
not free. They have wants. They are under the 
necessity of feediuL;-, clothin;,;', and shelterini; them- 
selves. To the extent of their actual wants, they are 
not free. 

llverv limitation is a master. Every finite being 
is a prisoner, and no man has ever yet looked above 
or beyond the prison walls. ()ur highest conception 
of liberty is to Ijc fn;e horn the dictation of fellow 
prisoners. 

To the extent that we have wants, we arc not 
free. To the extent that we do not have wants, we do 
not act. 



128 FREK WILL. 

If wc arc responsible for our thou_i;'hts, we oug-ht 
not onh' to know how the)- are fornietl, but we ouoht 
to form theuL If we are the masters of our own 
minds we would be able to tell what we are going- to 
think at any future time. 

li\-identl\-. the food of thought — its \'ery w-arj) 
and woof — is furnished through the medium of the 
senses. If we open om" exes, we cannot help seeing. 
If we do not stoj) our cars, we cannot help hearing. 
If any thing touches us, we feel it. The heart beats 
in spite of us. The lungs suppl)' theiiiselves with 
air without our knowledge. The blood pursues its 
old accustt)med rounds, and all our senses act without 
our leave. As the heart beats, st) the brain thinks. 
The will is not its king. As the l)lood flows, as the 
lurfgs expand, as the cncs see, as the ears hear, so 
the brain thinks. 

I had a dream, in which I debated a question 
with a friend. I thought to m)'self : " This is a 
dream, and )et I can not tell what my opponent 
is going to say. Vet, if it is a dream, I am doing the 
thinking for both sides, and, therefore, ought to 
know in advance what mv friend will urge." But, in 
a dream, there is some one who seems to talk to us. 



I'Ki:m will. 129 

Our own brain tells us news, and presents an unex- 
l)ected thoug-ht. 

Is it not i)()ssil)le that each brain is a field, where 
all the senses sow the seeds of thought? Some 'jf 
these fields are mostly barren, ])()or, and hard, i)r(,- 
ducing only worthless weeds; and some grow sturdy 
oaks and stately palms; and some are like the tropic 
world, where plants and trees and vines seem royal 
children of the soil and sun. 



THI'. KING OF DHATH. 




^2. 0\V is it known that it was claimed, during 
the life of Christ, that he had wrought a 
miracle? And if the claim was made, 
how is it known that it was not denied ? 
Did the Jews believe that Christ was 
clothed with miraculous power? Would 
the\- ha\ e dared to crucify a man w ho had the power 
to thrill the dead with life ? Is it not wonderful that 
no one at the trial of Christ said one word about the 
miracles he had wrought? Nothing about the sick 
that he had healed, or the dead that he had raised ? If 
Christ had w rought the miracles attributed to him ; 
if tie had cured the maimed, the leprous, and the halt; 
if he hail changed the night of blindness into blessed 
day ; if he had wrested from the fleshless hand of 
avaricious death the stolen jewel of a life, and clothed 
again with throbbing flesh the pulseless dust, he would 
have won the love and adoration of mankind. If ever 
there shall stand u])t)n this earth the king of death, all 
human knees will tinich the ground. 




THIi WISH MAN. 



HE wise man relics upon evidence, upon 
demonstration, upon cxjKTicncc, antl 
occupies Iiinisclf with one world at a 
time. lie perceives that tliere is a men- 
tal horizon that we cannot pierce, and 
that l)eyond that is the unknown — 
inknowable. He endeavors to examine 
only that which is capable of beiny; examined, and 
considers the theological method as not only useless, 
but hurtful. After all, (iod is but a guess, throned 
and established by arrogance and assertion. Turning 
his attention to those things that have in some way 
affected the condition of mankind, the wise man 
leaves the unknowable to priests and to the believers 
in the "moral goxernment " of the world. lie sees 
only natural causes and natural results, and seeks to 
induce man to gi\'e up gazing into void and empty 
space, that he may give his entire attention to the 



132 llll': WISI'. MAX. 

woild in which hr h\rs. IK' sees lliat rij^hl and 
wnui!^ do not tlrprnd npon liu- arhilrars will oi i.'\c'n 
an inlimlr hrini;, Inil U|)on thr nature of thin_<;s; 
thai tlu\- Avc relations. no[ entities, and that they 
cannot exist, so far as we know, ap.nt Uo\u human 
e\iHi"ience. 

it nia\- l>e that men will tinall\- see that selhshness 
and self-sacri!ici' ai'e both mistakes ; that the hrst 
devours itself; that the second is not demanded 1)\ 
the i^iuul.and thai the hail an' unworthy of it. It ma\ 
be that ouv lace h.is ne\ er been, and nt'xer will 
be, desiTN inj; o\ a m.ulN i". Some time we ma_\' see 
that justice is the hi^lu'St possible form oi mercy and 
lo\e, aiul that .dl should not onl\ be allowed, but 
compelled, to reaj) exactb' w hat the\- sin\ ; that in- 
dustr\- should not sujtport idleness, and that they 
who waste the spring, aiul summer, and autumn ot 
tluir li\es, should bear the winter when it comes. 
The fortunate should assist the \ictims oi accident; 
the strong- should defentl the weak, anil the intel- 
lectual slunild lead, with lo\ in;.;- hamls, the menial 
l>oor; but lustice should remo\ i' the bandai;"e from 
her i-\-es lon>;- enough to disliui^uish between the 
xicituis anil the unfoitunate. 



BRUNO. 




Ill', iiioht of the middle a,<;-cs lasted for a 
thoiisaiid )'c;ars. Tlic first star that 
ciiriclicd the horizon of tliis universal 
L;loom was (Jioi"(lano iJiamo. IK: was 
^^^y^"^ the herald of the dawn. 
^ ^ He was horn in 1550, was educated 

for a jjriest, hecanie a ])oiuinican friar. At last his 
reason revolted against the doctrine of transuhstanti- 
ation. He could not l)elie\'e that the entii-e Trinity 
was in a wafei", or in a swallow ol wine. He could 
not l)elie\-e that a mail (ould devour the Creator of 
the uni\'ei-se hy eating' a i)ii't;e of bread. This led 
him to investiL;'ate other doi;inas of the ("atholic 
church, and in ex'cry diiec tion he found the same 
contradictions and impossibilities su|)|)orted, not by 
reason, but by fiith. 

Those W'lio loxed their (..•neniies threatened his life. 
He was obli'-ed to flee from his nati\'e land, and he 



134 BRUNO. 

became a \ ajj^alxind in neaiiv every nation of Europe. 
He declared that he fought, not wiiat priests beheved, 
but what they j)retentled to l)elie\'e. He was dri\'en 
from his native country l)ecause of his astronomical 
opinions, lie had K)st confidence in the bible as a 
scientihc work. He was in danger because he had 
discoxered a truth. 

lb' fled Id I'ngland. He gave some lectures at 
O.xford. lie found tliat institution controlled by the 
priests. He fouiul that they were teaching nothing 
of importance — onl\- the i!U|)ossible and the hurtful. 
He called Oxford "the widow of true learning." 
There were in linghuul, at that time, two men who 
knew more than the rest of the world. Shakespeare 
was then ali\e. 

-^Brunt) was drixen from England. He was re- 
garded as a dangerous man, — he had opinions, he 
inquired after reasons, he expressed confidence in facts. 
He tied to France. He was not allowed to remain 
in that countr\\ He discussed things — that was 
ent)ugh. The Church said, " move on." He went 
to Ciermany. He was not a belie\xr — he x\as an 
investigator. The Germans wanted believers; they 
regarded the whole Christian system as settled ; they 



BRUNO. 135 

wanted witnesses ; they wanted men who would 
assert. So he was driven from Germany. 

lie returned at last to his native land. He found 
himself without friends, because he had been true, not 
only to himself, but to the human race. But the 
world was false to him because he refused to crucify 
the Christ of his own soul between the two thieves of 
hypocrisy and bigotry. He was arrested for teaching 
that there are other worlds than this ; that many of the 
stars are suns, around which other worlds re\olve ; 
that Nature did not exhaust all her energies on this 
grain of sand called the earth. He believed in a 
plurality of worlds, in the rotation of this, in the 
heliocentric theory. For these crimes, and for these 
alone, he was imprisoned for six years. He was 
kept in solitary confinement. He was alloA\ed no 
books, no friends, no visitors. He was denied pen 
and paper. In the darkness, in the loneliness, he had 
time to examine the great questions of origin, of 
existence, of destiny. He put to the test what is 
called the goodness of God. He found that he could 
neither depend upon man nor upon any deity. At last, 
the inquisition demanded him. He was tried, con- 
demned, excommunicated and sentenced to be burned. 



136 BRUNO. 

According- to ProfcsstM" Draper, he believed that 
this world is animated by an intelhgent soul — the 
cause of forms, but not of matter; that it li\es in all 
things, e\en in such as seem not to li\e ; that e\erv- 
thing is reatl}- to Ijecome organized ; that matter is 
the mother of forms, and then their grave ; that matter 
and the soul of things, together, constitute God. He 
was a pantheist — that is to say, an atheist. He was 
a k)\er of nature, — a reaction from the asceticism 
t)f the church. lie was tiietl of the gloom of the 
monaster\-. He ioxetl the fields, the wootls, the 
streams. He said to his brother-|)riests : C\)me out 
of your cells, out of )'our ilungeons ; come into the air 
and light. Throw away your l)eads and your crosses. 
Gather tlowei's ; mingle with )'our fellow-men ; have 
wiv^s and ehihhxn ; scatter the seeds of joy ; throw 
away the thorns and nettles of ytnu* creeds ; enjoy the 
perpetual miracle of Life. 

On the sixteenth da\- of February, in the )ear 
of grace 1600, b\- the triumphant beast, the Church 
of Rome, this philosopher, this great antl splendid 
man, was burned. He was offered his liberty if he 
would recant. There was no (rod to be offended 
bv his recantation, and yet, as an apostle of what he 



HRUNO. 137 

believed to be the truth, he refused this offer. To 
those who passed the sentenee upon hiiu he saitl : 
"It is with greater fear that ye [)ass this sentence 
upon nie than I receive it." This man, (greater than 
any naturahst of his chis' ; grander than the martyr 
of any rehgion, ched wilh'ngiy in defence of wliat 
he beiie\-ed to be the sacred truth. lie was great 
enough to know that real reh'gion will not destroy 
the joy of life on earth ; great enough to know that 
iinestigation is not a crime — that the really useful is 
not hiddi'n in the mysteries of faith. He knew that 
the Jewish records were below the level of the <ireek 
and Roman nnths ; that theix- is no such thing 
as special pro\idence ; that prayer is useless ; that 
liberty and necessity are the same, and that good and 
e\-il are but relative. 

He was the first real mart\'r, — neithc'r frightened 
by i)erdition, nor bribed by hea\en. He was the 
first of .dl the world w ho died for truth without e\- 
jjectation of reward. He did not anticipate a crown 
of glory. His imagination had not peo|)led the 
heavens with angels waiting for his soul. He had 
not been promised an eternity of joy if he stood firm, 
nor had he been threats iu;d with the fires o{ hell if he 



138 BRUNO. 

wavered and recanted. He expected as his reward 
an eternal nothing ! Death was to him an everlasting 
end — nothing beyond but a sleep without a dream, a 
night without a star, without a dawn — nothing but 
extinction, blank, utter, and eternal. No crown, no 
palm, no " well done, good and faithful servant," no 
shout of \velcome, no song of praise, no smile of God, 
no kiss of Christ, no mansion in the fair skies — not 
even a grave within the earth — nothing but ashes, 
wind-blown and priest-scattered, mixed with earth 
and trampled beneath the feet of men and beasts. 

The murder of this man will never be completely 
and perfectly avenged until from Rome shall be 
swept every vestige of priest and pope, until over 
the shapeless ruin of St. Peter's, the crumbled Vati- 
can''^ and the fallen cross, shall rise a monument 
to Bruno, — the thinker, philosopher, philanthropist, 
atheist, martyr. 



THE REAL BIBLE. 




HE world should know that the real 
l)il)lc has not yet been written, but 
is beini;- written, and that it will never 
be finished until the race begins its 
downward march, or ceases to exist. 
The real bible is not the work of 
inspired men, nor of prophets, or apostles, or evan- 
gelists, nor of Christs. Every man who finds a fact, 
adds a word to this great book. The real bible is 
not attested by prophecy, by miracles, or signs. 
It makes no appeal to faith, to ignorance, to credulity, 
or fear. It has no punishment for unbelief, and 
no reward for hypocrisy. It appeals to man in 
the name of demonstration. It has nothing to con- 
ceal. It has no fear of being read, of being contra- 
dicted, of being inx'estigated and understood. It 
does not pretend to be holy, or sacred ; it simply 



HO THE REAL BIBLE. 

claims to be true. It challenges the scrutiny of all, 
and implores every reader to verify every line for 
himself It is inca])a])le of being blasphemed.. This 
book appeals to all the surroundings of man. Each 
thing that exists testifies to its perfection. The earth, 
with its heart of fire and crowns of snow ; with 
its forests and plains, its rocks and seas ; with its 
every wave and cloud ; with its every leaf and bud 
and flower, confirms its every word; and the solemn 
stars, shining in the infinite abysses, are the eternal 
witnesses of its truth. 



BliNHDICT SPINOZA. 




NH of llic i^rcalust thinkers was Benedict 
Spinoza, a Jew, hcjrn at Anistcrdani in 
1632. He studied medicine and after- 
ward theology. He endeavored to under- 
stand what he studied. In theology he 
necessarih' failed. Theology is not in- 
tended to be iniderstood, — it is onl\' to be believed. 
It is an act, not of reascjn, but of faith. Spinoza ])Ut to 
the rabbis so many (luestions, and so persistently 
asked for reasons, that he became the most trouble- 
some of students. W'hen the rabbis found it im- 
possible to answer the questions, they concluded to 
silence the (piestioner. He was tried, found guilty, 
and excommunicated from tlie synagogue. 

By the terrible curse of the Jewish religion, hi' 
was made an outcast from every Jewish home. His 
father could not give him shelter. His mother could 



142 BnNRIMCT SPINOZA. 

not i^ixi' liini l)rf;ul — could not S])cak to him, without 
bcconiinj^' an outcast herself. All the cruelty of 
Jehovah, all the infamy of the Old Testament, was in 
this curse. In the darkness of the synagogue the 
rabbis lighted their torches, and while pronouncing 
the curse, extinguished them in blood, imploring ("rod 
that in like manner the soul of Henedict Spinoza 
might be extinguished. 

Spinoza was but t\\ent\-four \ears old when he 
found himself without kindretl, without friends, sur- 
rounded onl\' by enennes. He uttered no conii)laint. 
He earned his bi-ead w ith w illing IuuhIs, and cheerfully 
dixided his crust w ith those still |)oorer than himself 

lie tried to soKe the problem of existence. To 
him, the universe was One. The Infinite embraced 
the All. The .All was (".od. According to his belief, 
the universe did not comnu'nce to be. It is ; fi'om 
eternity it was ; to eternity it will be. 

He was right. The uni\erse is all there is, or 
was, or will be. It is both subject and object, 
contemplator and contem])lated, creator and created, 
destroN'cr and ckslro\'eil, ]ireser\er and j)reserved, and 
hath within itself all causes, modes, motions and eftects. 

In this there is ho|)e. This is a foundation and a 



BlLNIiDICr SPINOZA. I43 

Star. The Infinite is the All. W^ithout the All, the 
Infinite eannot l)e. I am soniethini;'. Without nie, 
the Infinite eannot e.xisl. 

Spinoza was a naturalist — that is to say, a pan- 
theist, lie took the ground that the supernatural is, 
and forever will he, an infinite impossibility. His 
propositions are luminous as stars, and each of his 
demonstrations is a ( ".ibraltar, behind which logic sits 
and smiles at all the sophistries of superstition. 

Spinoza has been hated because he has not been 
answered. lie was a real icpubliean. He regarded 
the people as the true and only source of political 
power. He put the state above the church, the people 
above the priest. He l)elie\ed in the al)Solute liberty 
of worship, thought and speech. In every re-lation of 
life he was just, tiaie, gentle, patient, modest and 
loving. He respected the rights of others, and en- 
deavored to enjoy his own, and yet he brought upon 
himself llu- hatred of the Jewish and tin: Christian 
world. In his dav, logic was blasphemy, and to think 
was the unj)ardonable sin. The ])riest hated the [)hi- 
losopher, revelation revded reason, and faith was the 
sworn foe of every fact. 

Spinoza was a philosoj^her, a philanthr(jpist. He 



144 BENI'DICT SPINOZA. 

li\ccl ill a world of his own. He avoided men. His 
life was an intelleetual solitude. He was a mental 
hermit. ()nl\- in his own brain he found the liberty 
he lo\ed. .\nd > et the ral)bis and the priests, the 
ignorant zealot and the eruel bigot, feeling that this 
quiet, thoughtful, modest man was in some way 
forging weapons to be used against the ehureh, hated 
him w ith all their hearts. 

He did not retaliate. He found excuses for their 
acts. Their ignorance, their malice, their misguided 
and rexengetul zeal excited only pity in his breast. 
He injured no man. lie did not live on alms. He 
was poor — and vet, with the wealth of his brain, he 
enriched the world. 

On Sunday, February 21st, 1677, Spinoza, one of 
th-d" greatest and subtlest of metaphysicians — one of 
the noblest and purest of human beings, — at the age 
of fortv-four, passed tranquilly away ; and notwith- 
standing the curse of the SN-nagogue under which he 
had Vwcd and most lovingly labored, death left upon 
his lips the smile of perfect peace. 




'THE FIRST DOUBT. 

HH first doubt was the womb and cradle 
of progress, and from the first doubt, 
man has continued to advance. Men 
began to investigate, and the church 

C)f=>r^ began to opjjose. The astronomer 
' scanned the heavens, while the church 

branded his grand forehead with the word, " Infidel ;" 
and now, not a glittering star in all the \ast expanse 
bears a Christian name. In spite of all religion, the 
geologist penetrated the earth, read her history in 
books of stone, and found, iiidden within her bosom, 
souvenirs of all the ages. ( )ld ideas perished in the 
retort of the chemist, and useful truths took their 
places. One by one religious conceptions have been 
placed in the crucible of science, and thus far, nothing 
but dross has been found. A new world has been 
discovered by the microscope ; everywhere has been 



146 THE FIRST DOUBT. 

found the infinite ; in every direction num has investi- 
i^ated and explored, and nowhere, in earth or stars, 
has been found the footstep of any being superior to 
or independent of nature. Nowhere has been dis- 
covered the shghtest evidence of any interference from 
without. 

These are the subhme truths that enabled man to 
throw off the yoke of superstition. These are the 
splendid facts that snatched the sceptre of authority 
from the hands of priests. 



THE INFINITE HORROR. 




F there be another life, the basest soul that 
finds its way to that dark or radiant shore 
will lune the e\XTlasting ehance of doing 
right. Nothing but the most cruel ignor- 
ance, the most heartless superstition, the 
most ignorant theology, ever imagined 
that the few days of human life spent here, surrounded 
by mists and clouds of darkness, blown over life's sea 
by storms and tempests of passion, fixed for al! 
eternity the condition of the human race. If this 
doctrine be true, this life is but a net, in which 
Jehovah catches souls for hell. 

The idea that a certain belief is necessar\' to 
saKation unsheathed the s\\ords and lighted the 
fagots of persecuticMi. As long as heaven is the re- 
ward of creed instead of deed, just so long will every 
orthodox church be a bastile, every member a 
prisoner, and every priest a turnkey. 



148 THI>: INl'INITI' HORROR. 

In the estimation of i;ood orthodox Christians, I 
am a criminal, Jjecause I am trying to take from 
loving mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, 
\vi\es, and lovers the consolations naturally arising" 
from a belief in an eternity of grief and pain. I w ant 
to tear, break, and scatter to the winds the God that 
priests erected in the fields of innocent pleasure — a 
God made of sticks, called creeds, and of old clothes, 
calletl myths. I ha\e tried to take from the coffin 
its horror, from the cradle its curse, and put out the 
fires of revenge kindled by the savages of the past. 
Is it necessar)' that hea\en should borrow its light 
from the glare of hell ? Infinite punishment is infinite 
cruelty, endless injustice, immortal meanness. To 
worship an eternal gaoler hardens, debases, and 
poHutes the soul. While there is one sad and break- 
ing heart in the unixerse, no perfectly good being 
can be perfectly hapjn-. Against the heartlessness 
of this doctrine every grand and generous soul should 
enter its solemn protest. I want no part in any 
heaven where the saved, the ransomed, and redeemed 
drown with merry shouts the cries and sobs of hell ; 
in w hich happiness forgets misery ; where the tears 
of the lost increase laughter and deepen the dimples 



Till': INI-INITI': HORROR. 149 

of joy. The idea of hell was born of ignoranee, 
biutaliU', fear, eowardice, aiul re\enge. This idea 
tends to show that our remote ancestors were the 
lowest beasts. Only from dens, lairs, and caves ; 
only from mouths filled with cruel fangs ; only from 
hearts of fear and hatred ; only from the conscience 
of hunger and lust ; only from the lowest and most 
debased, could come this most cruel, heartless, and 
absurd of all dogmas. 

Our ancestors knew but little of nature. They 
were too astonished to investigate. They could 
not divest themselves of the idea that everything 
happened with reference to them ; that they caused 
storms and earthquakes ; that they brought the 
tempest and the whirlwind ; that on account of some- 
thing they had done, or omitted to do, the lightning 
of vengeance leaped from the darkened sky. They 
made up their minds that at least two vast and 
powerful beings presided over this world ; that one 
was good and the other bad ; that both of these 
beings wished to get control of the souls of men ; 
that they were relentless enemies, eternal foes ; that 
both welcomed recruits and hated deserters ; that one 
offered rewards in this world, and the other in the 



150 THE INFINITE HORROR. 

next. Man saw cruelty and mercy in nature, because 
he .imagined that phenomena were produced to punish 
or to reward him. It was supposed that God de- 
manded worship ; that he loved to be flattered ; that 
he delighted in sacrifice ; that nothing made him 
happier than to see ignorant faith upon its knees ; 
that above all things he hated and despised doubters 
and heretics, and regarded investigation as rebellion. 
Each community felt it a duty to see that the enemies 
of God were converted or killed. To allow a heretic 
to live in peace was to invite the wrath of God. 
Every public evil, every misfortune, was accounted 
for by something the community had permitted or 
done. When epidemics appeared, brought by ignor- 
ance and welcomed by filth, the heretic was brought 
out^and sacrificed to appease the anger of God. By 
putting intention behind what man called good, God 
was produced. By putting intention behind what 
man called bad, the Ue\ il was created. Leave this 
•' intention " out, and gods and devils fade away. If 
not a human being existed, the sun would continue 
to shine, and tempest now and then would devastate 
the earth; the rain would fall in pleasant showers; 
violets would spread their velvet bosoms to the sun. 



THE IXFIMTIi: HORROR. I5I 

the earthquake would devour, birds would sing and 
daisies bloom and roses blush, and volcanoes fill the 
heavens with their lurid glare ; the procession of the 
seasons would not be broken, and the stars would 
shine as serenely as though the world were filled 
with loving hearts and happy homes. 

Do not imagine that the doctrine of eternal re- 
venge belongs to Christianity alone. Nearly all 
religions have had this dogma for a corner-stone. 
Upon this burning foundation nearly all have built. 
Over the abyss of pain rose the glittering dome of 
pleasure. This world was regarded as one of trial. 
Here, a God of infinite wisdom experimented with 
man. Between the outstretched paws of the infinite, 
the mouse, man, was allowed to play. Here, man 
had the opportunity of hearing priests and kneeling 
in temples. Here, he could read, and hear read, the 
sacred books. Here, he could have the example of 
the pious and the counsels of the holy. Here, he 
could build churches and cathedrals. Here, he could 
burn incense, fast, wear hair-cloth, deny himself all 
the pleasures of life, confess to priests, construct in- 
struments of torture, bow before pictures and images, 
and persecute all who had the courage to despise 



152 THE INFINITE HORROR. 

superstition, and the goodness to tell their honest 
thoughts. After death, if he died out of the church, 
nothing could be done to make him better. When 
he should come into the presence of God, nothing 
was left except to damn him. Priests might convert 
him here, but God could do nothing there. All of 
which shows how much more a priest can do for a 
soul than its creator. Only here, on the earth, where 
the devil is constantly active, only where his agents 
attack every soul, is there the slightest hope of moral 
improvement. Strange ! that a world cursed by God, 
filled with temptations, and thick with fiends, should 
be the only place where man can repent, the only 
place where reform is possible. 

Masters frightened slaves with the threat of hell, 
and slaves got a kind of shadowy revenge by whis- 
pering back the threat. The imprisoned imagined a 
hell for their gaolers ; the weak built this place for 
the strong; the arrogant for their rivals; the van- 
quished for their victors ; the priest for the thinker ; 
religion for reason ; superstition for science. All the 
meanness, all the revenge, all the selfishness, all 
the cruelty, all the hatred, all the infamy of which 
the heart of man is capable, grew, blossomed, and 
bore fruit in this one word — Hell. 




NATURE. 



OT^rf ATURH, so far as we can discern, without 
l^ |E I) passion and without intention, forms, 
rji^^lJy*ilS transforms, and retransforms forever. 
She neither weeps nor rejoices. She 
produces man without purpose, and ob- 
htcratcs him without regret. She knows 
no distinction between the beneficial and the hurtful. 
Poison and nutrition, pain and joy, hfe and death, 
smiles and tears are ahi>:e to her. She is neither 
merciful nor cruel. She cannot be flattered by wor- 
shij) nor melted by tears. She does not know even 
the attitude of prayer. She appreciates no difference 
between poison in the fangs of snakes and mercy in 
the hearts of men. Yet religious people see nothing 
but design everywhere, and personal, intelligent inter- 
ference in everything. They insist that the universe 
has been created, and that the adaptation of means to 



I 54 N A 1 Li Kli. 

ends is perfectly apparent. They point us to the 
sunshine, to the flowers, to the April rain, and to all 
there is of beauty and of use in the world. Did it 
e\er occur to them that a cancer is as beautiful in its 
development as is the reddest rose ; that what they 
are pleased to call the adaptation of means to ends, is 
as apparent in the cancer as in the April rain? How 
beautiful the process of digestion ! By what ingenious 
methods the blood is poisoned so that the cancer shall 
have food ! By what wonderful contrivances the 
entire system of man is made to pay tribute to this 
divine and charming cancer ! See by what admirable 
instrumentalities it feeds itself from the surrounding 
quivering, dainty flesh ! Sec how it gradually but 
surely expands and grows ! By what marvelous 
medianism it is supplied with long and slender roots 
that reach out to the most secret nerves of pain for 
sustenance and life ! What beautiful colors it presents ! 
Seen through the microscope it is a miracle of order 
and beauty. All the ingenuity of man cannot stop 
its growth. Think of the amount of thought it must 
have required to invent a way by which the life of one 
man might be given to produce one cancer? Is it 



NATURE. [55 

|jo.ssiblc to look upon it and doubt that there is design 
in the universe, and that the inventor of this wonder- 
ful cancer must be infinitely powerful, ingenious and 
good ? 

Man has no ideas, and can have none, except 
tliose suggested by his surroundings. He cannot 
conceive of anything utterly unlike what he has seen 
or felt. He can exaggerate, diminish, combine, 
separate, deform, beautify, improve, multiply and com- 
pare what he sees, what he feels, what he hears, and 
all of which he takes cognizance through the mediuni 
of the senses ; but he cannot create. Having seen 
exhibitions of power, he can say, omnipotent. Hav- 
ing li\ed, he can say, immortality. Knowing some- 
thing of time, he can say, eternity. Conceiving 
something of intelligence, he can say, God. Having 
seen exhibitions of malice, he can say, devil. A (ew 
gleams of happiness ha\'ing fallen athwart the gloom 
of his life, he can say, heaven. Pain, in its number- 
less forms, having been experienced, he can say, hell. 
Vet all these ideas ha\-e a foundation in fact, and only 
a foundation. The superstructure has been reared by 
exaggerating, diminishing, combining, separating, de- 
forming, beautif\ing, im])ro\-ing or multi])lying reali- 



156 NATURE. 

ties, SO that the edifice or fabric is but the incongruous 
grouping of what man has perceived through the 
medium of the senses. It is as though we should 
give to a lion the wings of an eagle, the hoofs of a 
bison, the tail of a horse, the pouch of a kangaroo, 
and the trunk of an elephant. We have in imagina- 
tion created an impossible monster. And yet the 
various parts of this monster really exist. So it is 
with all the gods that man has made. Beyond nature 
man cannot go, even in thought — above nature he 
cannot rise — below nature he cannot fall. 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 



j^^j LOOK. In gloomy caves I see the sacred 
serpents coiled, waiting for their sacrificial 

_^^^ prey. I see their open jaws, their restless 

)^ii)' tongues, their glittering eyes, their cruel 

.•^ fangs. I see them seize and crush, in 

^' 1 many horrid folds, the helpless children 
given by mothers to appease the Serpent- God. 

I look again. I see temples wrought of stone 
and gilded with barbaric gold. I sec altars red 
with human blood. I see the solemn priests thrust 
knives in the white breasts of girls. 

I look again. I see other temples and other 
altars, where greedy flames devour the flesh and 
blood of babes. I see other temples and other priests 
and other altars dripping with the blood of oxen, 
lambs, and do\'es. I see other temples and other 



158 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

priests and other altars, on whieh are sacrificed the 
Hberties of man. I look : I see the cathedrals of 
God, the huts of peasants ; the robes of kings, the 
rags of honest men. 

I see a ^\•orld at war — the lovers of God are the 
haters of men. I see dungeons filled with the noblest 
and the best. I see exiles, wanderers, outcasts — 
millions of martyrs, widows, and orphans. I see the 
cunning instruments of torture, and hear again the 
shrieks and sobs and moans of millions dead. I see 
the prison's gloom, the fagot's flame. I see a world 
beneath the feet of priests ; Liberty in chains ; every 
virtue a crime, every crime a virtue ; the white 
forehead of honor wearing the brand of shame ; intel- 
ligence despised, stupidity sainted, hypocrisy crowned; 
ana bending abo\'e the poor earth, religion's night 
without a star. This was. 

I look again, and in the East of Hope, the first 
pale light shed by the herald star gives promise of 
another dawn. I look, and from the ashes, blood 
and tears, the countless heroes leap to bless the 
future and avenge the past. I see a world at war, 
and in the storm and chaos of the deadly strife 
thrones crumble, altars fall, chains break, creeds 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 1 59 

change. The highest peaks are touched with holy 
hght. The dawn has blossomed. It is Day. 

I look. I see discoverers sailing mysterious seas. 
I see inventors cunningly enslave the blind forces of 
the world. Schools are built, teachers slowly take the 
place of priests. Philosophers arise. Thinkers give 
the \\'orld their wealth of brain, and lips grow rich 
with words of truth. This is. 

I look again. The popes and priests and kings 
are gone. The altars and the thrones ha\e mingled 
with the dust. The aristocracy of land and cloud 
have perished from the earth and air. The gods are 
dead. A new religion sheds its glory on mankind. 
It is the gospel of this world, the religion of the body, 
the evangel of health and joy. I see a world at 
peace, a world where labor reaps its true reward. A 
world without prisons, without workhouses, without 
asylums — a world on which the gibbet's shadow 
does not fall ; a world where the poor girl, trying to 
win bread with the needle — the needle that has been 
called "the asp for the breast of the poor" — is not 
driven to the desperate choice of crime or death, of 
suicide or shame. I see a world without the beg- 
gar's outstretched palm, the miser's heartless, stony 



l6o NIGHT AND MORNING. 

Stare, the piteous wall of want, the palhd face of 
crime, the hvid hps of hes, the cruel eyes of scorn. 
I see a race without disease of flesh or brain — shapely 
and fair, the married harmony of form and function. 

And as I look. Life lengthens, Joy deepens, Love 
intensifies, Fear dies, — Liberty at last is God, and 
Heaven is here. This shall be. 



THE CONFLICT. 




bin 



J55\''KRV man who has good health, c\'ery 
f^ man with good sense, e\'ery one who 
has had his dinner and has enough left 
for suj)per, is, to that extent, a eapitalist. 
Every jiian with a good character, who 
has the credit to l)orrow a dollar, or to 
is a capitalist ; and nine out of ten of the 
great capitalists in the United States are simply 
successful working-men. There is no conflict, and 
can he no conflict, in the United States, between 
capital and laljor ; and the men who endea\'or to 
excite the en\-y of the unfortunate, and the malice 
of the poor, are the enemies of law and ortler. 

As a rule, wealth is the result of industry, economy 
and attention to business; and as a rule, poverty is 
the result of idleness, extravagance, and inattention 
to business, though to these rules there are thousands 



1 62 



TIU' CONI'LICT 



of exceptions. Tlie man \\li() has wasted his time, 
who has thrown a\\a\' his opportunities, is i\\)i to 
en\ \- the man who has not. I'or instance, there are 
si.x shoemakers workini^' in one shop. One of them 
attends to his business. \"ou can hear the music of 
his Iiammer IaW antl earh'. lie is in 1o\e with some 
j^irl on the next street. Me has maile up 'his mind to 
l)e a man ; to suecLcd ; to make st)mel)ody else 
hap])\- ; to ha\e a home; antl while he is workinj;', 
in his imaL^ination he can see his own hreside, with 
the lioiit fallin- on the faces of w ife and child. 'The 
other ti\ e <;entlemen work as little as the)' can, spend 
Sunda\- in dissij)ation, ha\ c the headache Mondaw 
and. as a result, ne\ er ad\ ance. The industrious 
ong, the one in lo\e, trains the confitlence of his 
employer, and in a little w hile he cuts out work for 
the others. The first thini; \-ou know he has a shop 
of his own; the next, a store; because the man of 
reputation, tln' man of character, the man of known 
intci^ritx', can 1)U\- all he wishes. The next tiling- 
)-ou know he is married, and he has built him 
a house, and he is happ)-. Idis dream has been 
realizetl. After awhile the same fi\e shoemakers, 
ha\in;^ pursued the old course, stand on the corner 



Tin-, coNii.icr 



163 



some Suiulay when he rides by. lie has a ear- 
ria<;e ; liis wife sits by his side, her face eoxered 
with smiles, and they ha\e two ehihh-eii, theii" e\es 
beamiiit;' witli j()\, and the bkie ribbons are llut- 
lei'ini; ill the w iiid. Theixupon, these U\v shoemakers 
adjourn to some nei;^hborini;' saloon and pass a res- 
olution that there is an iri'epressible eonllict between 
capital and labor. 



DEATH OF THE AGED. 



y^vi FTER all, there is something tenderly 

t/C . V^r^yi-^ appropriate in the serene death of the old. 




^ Nothing is more touching than the death 
of the young, the strong. But when the 
duties of life have all been nobly done ; 
when the sun touches the horizon ; when 
the purple twilight falls upon the past, the present, 
and the future ; when memory, with dim eyes, can 
scarcely spell the blurred and faded records of the 
vanished days — then, surrounded by kindred and by 
friends, death comes like a strain of music. The day 
has been long, the road ^veary, and the traveler 
gladly stops at the welcome inn. 

Nearly forty-eight years ago, under the snow, in 
the little town of Cazenovia, my poor mother was 
buried. I was but two years old. I remember her 
as she looked in death. That sweet, cold face has 
kept my heart warm through all the changing years. 



THl^: CHARITY OF EXTRAVAGANCE. 




ffHENEVER the laboring men arc out 
C I of employment they begin to hate the 
'^■'; rich. They feel that the dwellers in 
\^) palaces, the riders in carriages, the 
i^'^y^~^H. wearers of broadcloth, silk, and velvet 
have in some way been robbing them. 
As a matter of fact, the palace builders are the friends 
of labor. The best form of charity is extravagance. 
When you give a man money, when you toss him a 
dollar, although you get nothing, the man loses his 
manhood. To help others help themselves is the 
only real charity. There is no use in boosting a 
man who is not climbing. Whenever I see a 
splendid home, a palace, a magnificent block, I think 
of the thousands who were fed — of the women and 
children clothed, of the firesides made happy. 

A rich man living up to his privileges, having the 



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l68 liXTRAVAGANCli. 

are education, honor, fame, and prosperity." These 
thoughts render ht)ly every drop of sweat tliat rolls 
down the face of honest toil. 

I SN-mpathize with the wanderers ; with the 
vagrants out of em|)lo\nient ; e\en with the sad and 
weary men who are seeking bread Ijut not work. 
When I see (Mie of these men, poor and friendless — no 
matter how bad he is — I think that somebody loved 
him once ; that he was once heltl in the arms of a 
mother ; that he slept beneath her loving eyes, and 
wakened in the light of her smile. I see him in the 
cradle, listening to lullabies sung soft and low, and his 
little face is dimpled as though touched by the rosy 
fingers of Joy. And then I think of the strange and 
winding paths, the weary roads he has tra\eled, from 
thaf mother's arms to misery and want and aimless 
crime. 



WOMAN. 




OTHING gives mc more pleasure, nothing 
gives greater promise for the future, than 
the fact that woman is achieving intehec- 
i^_^% tual and physical liberty. 

It is refreshing to know that here, in our 
(3;, country, there are thousands of women 
who tliink, and express their thoughts — who are 
thoroughly free and thoroughly conscientious — who 
ha\e neither been narrowed nor corrupted by a heart- 
less creed — who do not worship a being in heaven 
whom the}' would shudderingly loathe on earth — 
women who do not stand before the altar of a cruel 
faith, with downcast eyes of timid accjuiescence, and 
pay to impudent authority the tribute of a thoughtless 
yes. They are n(^ longer satisfied with being told. 
They examine for themselves. They have ceased to 
be the prisoners of society — the satisfied serfs of hus- 
bands, or the echoes of priests. They demand the 



rii^lUs that naturally hcloiii;- to intelligent human 
beini^s. If \vi\es, the)- wish io be the equal o\ hus- 
bands. If mothers, lhe_\' wish to rear their ehiklren 
in the atmosphere of lo\e, lii)ert_\- antl philosoithy. 
'rhe\- beliexe that woman ean ilisehar<ge all her duties 
without the aitl of superstition, and preserxe all that 
is true, pure, aiul tender, without sacrificini; in the 
temple of absurdit\- the eon\ietions of the soul. 

Woman is not the intelleetual inferior of man. 
She has laeked, not mind, but opportunitw In the 
lon;g night of barbarism, plnsieal strength and the 
crucltN' to use it, were the batlges of superiority. 
Muscle was more than miiul. In the ignorant age of 
Faith, the loxing nature of woman was ainisetl. Her 
conscience was rendered morbid and diseased. It 
might almost be said that slu' w as betrayed by her 
own \ irtues. At best she secured, nt)t opportunity, 
but llallei\- — the preface to degratlation. She was 
deprixcnl of libertw autl without that, nothing is worth 
the ha\ ing. Slu' was taught to obey without (|ues- 
tion, and to In-liexe without thought. Tlure were 
vmi\ersities for men before the alphabet had been 
taught to women. .\t the intellectual feast, there 
were no i)laces for wiyes and mothers. Ii\en now 



WOMAN. 171 

thc)^ sit at the sccoiul taljlc and cat the crusts and 
crumbs. I'lu: schools (or women, at the present time, 
are just tar enough behind those tor men, to fall heirs 
to the discardetl ; on tlu' same |)rinci])le that when a 
doctrine becomes too absurd for tin: |)ul|)it, it is <^'ivcn 
to the Sunda)'-school. 

The ai;es of nuiscle and miracle — of tists and 
faith — are passing' away. Minerva occupies at last a 
higher niche than Hercules. Now, a word is stroni;er 
than a blow. At last we sec women who depend upon 
themselves — who stand, self-poised, the shocks of 
this sad world, without leaning- for support against a 
church — who do not go to the literature of barbarism 
for consolation, nor use the falsehootls and mistakes 
of the past for the fountlation of their hope — women 
bra\e enough and tender enough to meet and bear the 
facts antl fortunes of this world. 

The men who declare that woman is the intellec- 
tual interior of luan, do not, and cannot, by offering 
thcmscKes in evidence, substantiate tluir declaration. 

\'et, I must admit that there are thousands of 
wivx-s who still ha\e faith in the saving power of 
superstition — who still insist on attending church 
while husbands jjrcfer the shores, the woods, or the 



172 

fiekU 

apart, and unconsciously the pearl of greatest price is 
tiirown away. The wife ceases to be the intellectual 
conij)anion of the husband. She reads the "Christian 
Register," sermons in the Monday papers, and a little 
gossi|) about folks and fashions, while he studies the 
works of Darwin, FLtckel, and Humboldt. Their 
sym|)athies become estranged. They are no longer 
mental friends. The husband smiles at the follies of 
the wife, and she weeps for the supposed sins of the 
husband. 

The parasite of woman is the })riest. 

It must also be admitted that there are thousands 
o{ men who believe that superstition is gcxxl for 
women and chiKlren — who regari,! falsehood as the 
fortress of \irtue, and teel indebted to ignorance for 
the purity of daughters and the fidelity of wives. 
These men think of priests as detcctixes in disguise, 
and regard God as a policeman w ho prevents elope- 
ments. Their opinions about religion are as correct 
as their estimate of woman. 

Most women cling to the bible because they ha\-e 
been taught that to gi\-e up that book is to give up 
all hope of another life — of e\er meeting again the 



WOMAN. 173 

loved and lost. They ha\e also been tauL;ht that the 
l)il)k- is their fricnti, thi-ii- defeiulLT, and the real civil- 
ize!" of man. Now if thL\- will onl}' read the bible, 
they will see that the truth or falsity of the dooma of 
inspiration has nothing;- to do with the (juestion of 
immortality. Cerlainl\- the Old TestanuiU does not 
teaeh us that there is another life, and upon that ques- 
tion e\'en the New is obseure and wii^i^ue. The 
hung'er of the heart hnds onl}- a few small and scat- 
tered crumbs. Tlu:re is nothing;" definite, solid, and 
satisfying. United with tin- idea of immortality we 
find the absurdity of the resurrection. A prophecy 
that depends for its fulfillment upon an impossibility 
cannot satisfy the brain or heart. 

There are but fi'W who do not long for a dawn 
beyond the night. .\nd this longing is born of and 
nourished by the heart. Love wrapped in shadow, 
l)ending with tear-filled eyes above its dead, convul- 
sively clasps the outstretched hand of hopi\ 

Those who read the "sacred xolume" will also 
discover, as they read, that it is not the friend of 
woman. Thev will f\n^\ that the writers of that book, 
for the most part, speak of woman as a poor beast of 
burden, a serf, a drudge, a kind of necessary evil — 



174 \\'(m.\N. 

as mere property. Surely, a book thai u])hol(ls 
polyi;aniy is not the friend of wife and mother. 

liven Christ dk\ not phiee woman on an ecpiahty 
with man. Me said not one word abt)ut the saered- 
ness of home, the duties of the husband to tlie wife — 
nothing calculated to lip^hten the hearts of those who 
bear the saddest burdens of this life. 

They will also find that the bible has not civilized 
man. A book that esta])]ishes and defentls shuery 
and want(Mi war is not calculated to soften the hearts 
of those who bclie\e implicitly that it is the work of 
Ciod. A book that not onl\' permits, l:)ut commands, 
relii^'ious persecution, has not in m\' jutlgment de- 
veloped the affectional nature of man. Its influence 
has been bad and bad only. It has filled the world 
wi^i bitterness, rexem^e and crime, and retarded in 
countless was's the pro!.;ress of our race. 

\\'i\-es who cease to learn — who simp!)' forget 
and believe — will fill the evening- of their lixes with 
barren sii^hs and bitter tears. 

The mind should outlast youth. If when beauty 
fades, thoui^iU, the tleft and unseen sculptor, hath not 
left his subtle lines upon the face, then all is lost. 
No charm is left. The lis^ht is out. There is no 
flame within to i;lorif\' the wrinkled clay. 



THE SACRED MYTHS. 




!•; read the Pa<j^ans' sacred books with 
l)r()fit and delight. With myth and 
fable we are ever charmed, and find a 
pleasure in the endless repetition of the 
beautiful, poetic, and absurd. We find, 
in all these records of the past, [)hi- 
losophies and dreams, and efforts stained with tears, 
of great and tender souls who tried to pierce the 
mystery of life and death, to answer the eternal 
questions of the Whence and Whither, and vainly 
sought to make, with bits of shattered glass, a mirror 
that would, in very truth, retkct the face and form 
of Nature's perfect self 

These myths were I)orn of hojies, and fears, and 
tears, and smiles, and they were touched and colored 
by all there is of joy and grief between the rosy 
dawn of birth and death's sad night. They clothed 



176 Till' SACKIU) IMVrilS. 

c\ cn ihc stars with i)assi()n, and j^axc to gods the 
\irtucs, faults, and trailtics of the sons of men. 
In them, the wmuls and waxes were nuisie, and all 
the lakis, and ^liwuns, and springs — the mountains, 
woods and perl'umed delU were haunted by a thou- 
santl fairs- forms. The}' thrilled the wins of Spring 
with tix'mulous desire ; made tawny Summer's bil- 
lowed breast the throne and home vi' lo\e ; filled 
Aulumn's arms w ith sun-kissetl grapes and gathered 
shea\ es ; and pietured Wintt'r as a weak oUl king 
who felt, like Liar, upon his withered faee, Cordelia's 
tears. These nnths, though false, avc beautiful, and 
ha\-e for mauN' ages and in eountless ways en- 
riehed the he.ul and kindled thought. P.ut if the 
world were taught that all these things are true 
aiid all inspired o\ (',ol\, and that eternal punishment 
will be the lot o{ him who dares deny or doubt, 
the sweetest nuth of all the Fable-WorKl would lose 
its beauty, anil beeome a seorned and hateful thing to 
everv bra\-e and thou'.^htful man. 



iNsi'ik/VnoN. 



(^JtS: 







irr us sec ^vh.-lt inspiration really is. A 
) man looks at the sea, and the sea says 
sonielhint;- to him. It makes an imj)res- 
j^;F^^-^ sion on his mind. It awakens niemoiy ; 
G^j?© ■'""' ^'''^ im|)ression ch-pends upon his 
"^ j{ experience — u|)op. his intcIK.ctual c;apacity. 
Another h)oks upon the: same sea. He has a (hnerent 
l)rain ; he has a (hUerent experience. The sea may 
speak to him of joy, to the other of L;i'ief and tears. 
The sea cannot tell the same thini;" io any two human 
l)cinj.(s, because no two human l)ein!_;s have had the 
same experience. ( )ne may think of wreck and ruin, 
and another, while listenini; to the " multitudinous 
laughter of the sea," may say : I'.very dro]) has visited 
all the shores of earth ; every one has been frozen in 
the vast and icy North, has fallen in snow, has 
whirled in storms around the' mountain pe.iks, been 
kissed to va])or by the sun, worn the seven-hued robe 



lyS INSPIRATION. 

of light, fallen in pleasant rain, gurgled from springs, 
and laughed in brooks, while lovers wooed upon the 
banks. E\erything in nature tells a different story 
to all eyes that see and to all ears that hear. So, 
when we look upon a painting, a statue, a star, 
or a violet, the more we know, the more we 
have experienced, the more we have thought, the 
more we remember, the more the statue, the star, the 
pamting, the violet has to tell. Nature says to me all 
that I am capable of understanding — gives all that 
I can receive. As with star, or flower, or sea, so with 
a book. A thoughtful man reads Shakespeare. 
What does he get ? All that he has the mind to 
understand. Let another read him, \\ho knows 
nothing of the drama, nothing of the impersonations 
of passion, and what does he get ? Almost nothing. 
Shakespeare has a different story for each reader. 
He is a world in which each recognizes his acquaint- 
ances. The impression that nature makes upon the 
mind, the stories told by sea and star and flower, 
must be the natural food of thought. Leaving out 
for the moment the impressions gained from ances- 
tors, the hereditary fears and drifts and trends — the 
natural food of thought must be the impressions 



INSPIRATION. 179 

made upon the brain by coming in contact, through 
the mechum of the senses, with what we call the out- 
ward world. The brain is natural ; its food is 
natural ; the result, thought, must be natural. Of the 
supernatural we have no conception. Thought may 
be deformed, and the thought of one may be strange 
to, and denominated unnatural by, another ; but it 
cannot be supernatural. It may be w^eak, it may be 
insane, but it is not supernatural. Above the natural, 
man cannot rise. There can be deformed ideas, as 
there are deformed persons. There may be religions 
monstrous and misshapen, but they were naturally 
produced. The world is to each man according to 
each man. It takes the world as it really is, and that 
man, to make that man's world. 

You may ask. And what of all this ? I reply, 
As with everything in nature, so with the bible. It 
has a different story for each reader. Is, then, the 
bible a different book to every human being who 
reads it ? It is. Can God, through the bible, make 
precisely the same revelation to two persons ? He 
cannot. Why ? Because no two persons are alike, 
and because the men who read it are not inspired. 
God should inspire readers as well as writers. 



l8o INSPIRAI'ION. 

\ou may reply : God knew that his book would 
be understood tlifferently by each one, and intended 
that it should be understood as it is understood 
by each. If this be so, then my understanding of the 
bible is the real re\elation to me. If this ]:)e so, 
I ha\e no right to take the understanding of another. 
1 must take the rexelation made to me through 
ni)- understanding, and by that re\elation I must 
stand. Suppose, then, that I read this l)ible honestly, 
fairly, and when I get through am compelled to say, 
The book is not true. If this is the honest result, 
then \-ou are compelled to say, either that Ciod has 
made no rexelation to me, or that the revelation that it 
is not true is the revelation made to me, and b\' which 
I am bound. If the book and my brain are both the 
\v€^-k of the same infinite God, whose fault is it that 
the book and brain do not agree ? Either God 
should have written a book to fit my brain, or should 
Iku'c made my brain to fit his book. The inspiration 
of the bible deixMids upon the credulity of him who 
reads. There was a time when its geology, its 
astronomy, its natural history, were thought to be in- 
spired ; that time has passed. There was a time when 
its morality satisfied the men \\ho ruled the world of 
diought : that time has passed. 



RELIGIOUS LIBERTY OL THE BIBLE. 




HIS is llic rclie^nous lil^crty of the liiblc : 
If you had lived in Palestine, and if the 
wife of your Ijosom, dearer to }'ou than 
)-our own soul, had said : " I like the 
religion of India better than that of 
Palestine," it would have l)een your 
duty to kill her. " Your eye must not pity her, your 
hand must be first upon her, and afterwards the hand 
of all the people." If she had said : " Let us worship 
the sun — the sun that clothes the earth in garments 
of green — the sun, the great fireside of the world — 
the sun that covers the hills and valleys with flowers 
— that gave me your face, and made it possible for mc 
to look into the eyes of my babe — let us worship the 
sun," it was your duty to kill her. You must throw 
the hrst stone, and when against her bosom — a 
bosom filled with love for you — you had thrown the 



1 82 RELIGIOUS LIBERTY OF THE BIBLE. 

jagt^cd and cruel rock, aiitl had seen the red stream 
of her hfe oozing from the dumb hps of death, you 
could then look up and receive the congratulations of 
the God whose commandment you had obeyed. Is 
it possible that a being of infinite mercy ordered 
a husband to kill his wife for the crime of having 
expressed an opinion on the subject of religion ? 
Has there been found upon the records of the savage 
world anything more perfectly fiendish than this 
commandment of Jehovah? This is justified on the 
ground that " blasphemy was a breach of political 
allegiance, and idolatry an act of overt treason." We 
can understand how a human king stands in need of 
the service of his people. We can understand how^ 
the desertion of any of his soldiers weakens his army ; 
but^''were the king infinite in power, his strength 
w^ould still remain the same, and under no con- 
ceivable circumstances could the enemy triumph. 

I insist that, if there is an infinitely good and 
wise God, he beholds with pity the misfortunes of his 
children. I insist that such a God would know the 
mists, the clouds, the darkness enveloping the human 
mind. He would know how few stars are visible 
in the intellectual sky. His pity, not his wrath. 



UKLIGIOrS LIBIiRTV OF JUK BIHLE. 1 83 

woLikl be excited by the efforts of his bhnd children, 
groping- in the night t(^ hnd the cause of things, and 
endeax'oring", through tlieir tears, to see some dawn 
of hoi)e. l-illed with awe l)y their surrounding's, by 
fear of the unicnown, he would know that when, 
kneeling, they poured out their gratitude to some 
unseen power, e\en to a visible idol, it was, in fact, 
intended for hini. An infinitely good being, had he 
the power, would answer the reasonable prayer of an 
honest savage, even when addressed to wood and 
stone. 



THE LAU(;iI OF A CHILD. 




HE laugh of a child will make the holiest 
day more sacred still. Strike with hand 
of tire, () weird musician.! thy harp slrung 
with AjJoUo's golden hair; till the \ast 
cathedral aisles with symphonies s\\eet 
antl dim, deft toucher of the organ keys ; 
blow, until the siKer notes do touch and 
kiss tile mot)nlit w axes, and charm the loNcrs wander- 
ing midst the xine-chul hills : but know , your sweetest 
strgiiis are discords all, ct)mpared with childhood's 
happy laugh — the laugh that fills the eyes with light 
and every heart w ith joy. () rippling river of laughter ! 
thou art tlie blessed boundarx' line between the beasts 
and men ; and e\erv wayward wave of thine doth 
drown some fretful fiend of care. O Laughter ! rose- 
lipped daughter of Joy, make dimples enough in thy 
cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of 
grief. 



THE CHRISTIAN NIGHT. 




() vvc not know that wlicn the Roman em- 
pire fell, darkness settled on the world ? 
Do we not know that this darkness 
lasted for a thousand years, and that 
during- all that time the church of Christ 
held with bloody hands, the sword of 
power ? These years were the starless midnight 
of our race. Art died, law was forgotten, toleration 
ceased to exist, charity fled from the human breast, 
and justice was unknown. Kings were tyrants, 
priests were pitiless, and the \nnn- multitude were 
slaves. In the name of Christ, men made instru- 
ments of torture, and the a/z/o cia fc took the place 
of the gladiatorial show. Liberty was in chains, 
honesty in dungeons, while Christian superstition 
ruled mankind. Christianity compromised with Pa- 
ganism. The statues of Jupiter were used to repre- 



l86 THE CHRISTIAN NIGHT. 

sent Jehovah. Isis and her babe were changed to 
Mary and the infant Christ. The Trinity of Egypt 
became the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. The sim- 
phcity of the early Christians was lost in heathen 
rites and Pagan pomp. The believers in the blessed- 
ness of poverty became rich, avaricious, and grasping ; 
and those who had said, " Sell all, and give to the 
poor," became the ruthless gatherers of tithes and 
taxes. In a few years the teachings of Jesus were 
forgotten. The gospels were interpolated by the de- 
signing and ambitious. The church was infinitely 
corrupt. Crime was crowned, and virtue scourged. 
The minds of men were saturated with superstition. 
Miracles, apparitions, angels, and devils had posses- 
sion of the world. The nights were filled with incubi 
and' succubi. Devils, clad in wondrous forms, and 
imps, in hideous shapes, sought to tempt or fright the 
soldiers of the cross. The maddened spirits of the air 
sent hail and storm. Sorcerers wrought sudden 
death, and witches worked with spell and charm 
against the common weal. In every town the stake 
arose. Faith carried fagots to the feet of philosophy. 
Priests fed and fanned the eager flames. The dun- 
geon was the foundation of the cathedral. Priests 



THE CHRISTIAN NIGHT. 187 

sold charms and relics to their flocks to keep away 
the wolves of hell. Thousands of Christians, failing 
to find protection in the church, sold their poor souls 
to Satan for some may;ic wand. Suspicion sat in 
every house, families were divided, wives denounced 
husbands, husbands denounced wives, and children 
their parents. Every calamitv then, as now, in- 
creased the power of the church. Pestilence sup- 
ported the pulpit, and famine was the right hand of 
faith. Christendom was insane. 



MY CHOICE. 




W'Oin J) rather ^o to the forest, far away, 
and buikl me a Httle eabin — build it my- 
self — and tlaub il with clay, and live there 
with my wife and children ; and have a 
winding j)ath leading down to the spring" 
where the water bubbles out, day and 
night, whispering a poem to the white pebbles, from 
the heart of the earth ; a little hut with some holly- 
hocks at the corner, with their banneiwl bosoms open 
to the sun. and a thrush in the air like a winged joy — 
I would rather li\e there :uu\ ha\ e some lattice work 
across the window so that the sun-light would fall 
checkered on the babe in the cradle — I would rather 
live there, with m\' soul erect and free, than in a 
palace of gold, and wear a crown of imperial power, 
and feel that I was superstition's cringing slave, and 
dare not speak mv honest thought. 



WHY? 




I F Christ was in fact God, he knew all 
the future. iJefore him, like a jjanorania, 
moved the history yet to be. He knew 
exactly how his \\-ords Avould he inter- 
preted. He knew what crimes, what 
horrors, what infamies, would be com- 
mitted in his name. He knew that the hres of perse- 
cution would climb around the limbs of countless 
martyrs. He knew that l)ra\e nun would languish 
in tlunj^^'ons, in darkness, filled with |)ain ; that the 
Church would use instruments of torture, that his 
followers would appeal to whi]) and chain. He must 
have seen the horizon of the future red with the 
flames of the aiifo da fe. He knew all the creeds 
that would s])rin!_;' like poisonous fungi from every 
text. He saw the sects waging war against each 
other. He saw thousands of men, under the orders 



190 WHY ? 

of priests, liuiUlint; tlunt^cons for their fcllow-mcn. 
lie saw them usin;^ instrunu'iits of pain. He heard 
the i^roaiis, saw the faees whiU' w itli a^oii) , the tears, 
the l)h)od — liearil the shrieks .iiul sobs of all the 
moaning, martyred multitudes. lie knew that eom- 
mentaries would be written on his wonls with 
swortls. to he read by the light of fagots. lie knew 
that the Incpiisition wouKl be ])orn of teaehings 
attributeil to him. lie saw all the inter[)olations and 
faIsehoo(.ls that Inpocrisy would write and tell. He 
knew that aboNt- these fields of death, these dungeons, 
these burnings, for a thousand years would tloat tlu' 
dripping banner of the eross. He knew that in his 
name his followers would trade in human llesh, that 
er.ulles would l)e robbed, aiul womin's breasts un- 
bailed for gold, and vet he ditil with \ oieeless lips. 
Why did he f ul to speak ? Whv did he not tell his 
discijiles, and throngh them tlu' world, that man 
shouUl not perseeute, fi>r opinion's sake, his tellow- 
man ? Win- diil he not erw \on shall not perseeute 
in m\' name ; \ on shall not burn and torment those 
who differ iVom nou in ereed ? Why did he not 
plainb- sav, I am tlu' Son of Cod ? \\'hy did he not 
exi)lain the doetrine o[ the trinity ? Why did he 



WHY .'' 191 

not tell the manner of baptism that \vas|)leasint; to 
him ? Why did he not say something positive, 
definite, ant! satisfactory about another world ? Why 
tlitl he not turn the tear-stained ho|)e of hea\'en to the 
-lad knowlecl-e of another life: ? Why did he -o 
tiunibl)- to his death, leaving the world to misery and 
to doubt ? 



IMACxINATION. 




T may be that a crime appears terrible in pro- 
portion as we realize its consequences. If 
this is true, morality may depend largely 
upon the imagination. Man can not have 
imagination at will ; that, certainly, is a 
natural product. And yet, a man's action 
may depend largely upon the want of imagination. 
One man may feel that he really wishes to kill another. 
He may make preparations to commit the deed ; and 
yet, his imagination may present such pictures of 
Irorror and despair ; he may so vividly see the widow 
clasping the mangled corpse ; he may so plainly hear 
the cries and sobs of orphans, while the clods fall upon 
the coffin, that his hand is stayed. Another, lacking 
imagination, thirsting only for revenge, seeing nothing 
beyond the accomplishment of the deed, buries, with 
blind and thoughtless hate, the dagger in his victim's 
heart. 



SCIENCE. 




ROM a philosophical point of view, science 
is knowledge of the laws of life ; of the 
conditions of happiness ; of the facts by 
which we are surrounded, and the rela- 
tions we sustain to men and things — by 
means of which man subjugates nature 
and bends the elemental powers to his will, making 
blind force the servant of his brain. 

Science is the great Iconoclast, and by the high- 
way of Progress are the broken images of the Past. 
On every hand the people advance. The Vicar 
of God has been pushed from the throne of the 
Caesars, and upon the roofs of the Eternal City falls 
once more the shadow of the Eagle. All has been 
accomplished by the heroic few. The men of science 
have explored heaven and earth, and with infinite 
patience have furnished the facts. The brave thinkers 



194 SCIENCE. 

have used them. The gloomy caverns of super- 
stition have been transformed into temples of thought, 
and the demons of the past are the angels of to-day. 
Science took a handful of sand, constructed a tele- 
scope, and with it explored the starry depths of 
heaven. Science wrested from the gods their thunder- 
bolts ; and now, the electric spark, freighted with 
thought and love, flashes under all the waves of 
the sea. Science took a tear from the cheek of un- 
paid labor, converted it into steam, and created a 
giant that turns with tireless arm, the countless 
wheels of toil. 



z' 




IF DEATH ENDS ALL. 



*^'^ND suppose, after all, that death does end 
If J&l' all. Next to eternal joy, next to being 
'^■"- forever with those we love and those 

who have loved us, — next to that, is to be 
w rapt in the dreamless drapery of eternal 
peace. Next to eternal life is eternal sleep. Upon 
the shadowy shore of death the sea of trouble casts 
no wave. Eyes that have been curtained by the 
everlasting dark will never know again the burning 
touch of tears. Lips touched by eternal silence will 
never speak again the broken words of grief. Hearts 
of dust do not break. The dead do not weep. 
Within the tomb no veiled and weeping sorrow sits, 
and in the rayless gloom is crouched no shuddering 
fear. 

I had rather think of those I have loved, and lost, 
as having returned to earth, as having become a part 



IQO IF DEATH ENDS ALL. 

of the elemental wealth of the world ; I would rather 
think of them as unconseious dust ; I would rather 
dream of them as gurolim;- in the stream, floating 
in the elouds, bursting in light upon the shores of 
other worlds ; 1 would rather think of them as the 
lost visions of a forgotten night, than to have even 
the faintest fear that their naked souls have been 
clutehed by an orthodox god. But as for me, I will 
lea\e the dead where nature leaves them. Whatever 
flower of hope springs in my heart I will cherish ; I 
will give it breath of sighs and rain of tears. 



HERE AND THERE. 




HE clergy balance the real ills of this life 
with the expected joys of the next. We 
are assured that all is perfection in 
heaven ; there the skies are cloudless, 
there all is serenity and peace. Here 
empires may be overthrown ; dynasties 
may be extinguished in blood ; millions of slaves 
may toil 'neath the fierce rays of the sun, and the 
cruel strokes of the lash ; yet all is happiness in 
heaven. I'estilence may strew the earth with corpses 
of the loved ; the survivors may bend above them in 
agony, yet the placid bosom of heaven is unruffled. 
Children may expire, vainly asking for bread ; babes 
mav be devoured by serpents, while the gods sit 
smiling in the clouds. The innocent may languish 
unto death in the obscurity of dungeons ; brave men 
and heroic women may be changed to ashes at the 



198 



iii'Ur \\i) nil': 



l)iL;()t's slake, while lic.iNiii is lillcd willi soii!^ aiul 
j()\'. ( )iil (111 the widr sc.i, in (l.iiknrss ,iiul in slorin, 
the shipwici kid stiUL;i;K' w illi llic i iiicl w ,i\ is w hilr 
the .in-fis pki\ upon their -oliKn h.u|.s. I he slrci'ls 
(.1 ihr wi.iKl air lillcd with ihr (hsrasiik ihr (Iclornu'il 
ami (he hilpliss ; thr rhamhris of pain aw i iow dciI 
with the pair loiins of llu' suririin-^, whilr the aiit;rls 
lloal and ll\ in (he happ\' I'rahns of (ki\ . In hra\rn 
lhi'\ arc liKi happ\ to ha\(' s\inpath\ ; ton |)us\- 
sin^^in- to aid the iinphMin- and dislix'ssrd. 1 hrir 
(■\i-s all' l>hndrd; thiir rars aw ^loppriK .nul llu'ir 
hrarl^ aw tninrd to slonr l)\ ihr inlinilc scMishiu'SS 
of joN . 1 lu' sa\rd mai'incr is loo happ\ w hrii \\c 
torn lu's ihr shore, lo L;i\i' a nionuait's ihoii^hl to his 
ih-ownin;^ hrollicrs. With ihr iiuhrirrriuf o{' happi- 
nrs's, with ihr rontnnpl of hhss, hra\rn l)arrl\- 
i^kuuis at Ihr inisriirs ol Carlh. (ilirs arr drxourrd 
1)\- Ihr rushing ki\a ; ihr r.nlh oprns, and thousands 
prri'^h ; wonirii raisr ihrir rkisprd hands toward 
hr.i\rn, lull ihi' m>ils ai-r loo happ\ lo aid ihrii' 
rhiKhrn. I'hr siuilrs oi [he drilii-s aw unari|uaintrd 
w ilh ihr tr.ns oi' inrn. Thr shouts ol hrascn drow n 
Ihr sol)s ot'i'arlh. 



now LONG? 




]\]l dot^nia of eternal jninishment rests 
U|)()n i)assa_L(es in the New 'r(.:stanieiit. 
This infamous behcf siilncrts every 
idra of justice. Around the ant;cl of 
inniiortahty tlie ('hureh has e<jiK(l this 
M-rprnt. A finite hein;^- can neither 
commit an infinite sin, ncjr a sin at^ainst the inlinite. 
A heini^'of infmite j.(oodncss and wisdom has no right, 
according to the human standard of justice, to create 
any l)eing destined to suffer etei-nal pain. A being 
of infmite wisdom wouhl not create a failure, and 
surely a man destined to everhasting agcMiy is not 
a success. 

Mow long, according to the universal benevolence 
of the Xew Testament, can a man be reasonably 
]nmishe(l in the next world for failing t(j believe 
something unreasonable in this ? ('an it be jKjssible 



200 now LONG ? 

that any puiiishinciU can cntlurc forever ? Suppose 
that every llake of snow that ever fell was a figure 
nine, and that the first tlake was multiplied by the 
second, and that proelucl 1)\- the tliirtl, and so on to 
the last llake. And then suppose that this total 
should be inuhi[)lieil by every drop of rain that ever 
fell, calliuL;- each dro]) a hi^ure nine; and that total 
by each blade of j;rass that e\er helped to weave 
a carpet for the earth, callini;' each blade a h^ure 
nine ; and that ai^ain b\- e\ er\- ^I'ain of sand on e\ery 
shore, so that the i;rand total would make a line of 
figures so long that it wouUI recpiire millions upon 
millions of \ears for light, Iraxeling at the rate of one 
hundred And eight\-li\\' thousand miles per secoutl, 
to reach the end. ,\nd supj)ose, further, that each 
un;t in this almost infmite total stood for billions 
of ages — still that \ast and almost endless time, 
measured 1)\- all the wars l)e\-ond, is as one Hake, one 
drop, one leaf one blade, one grain, compared with 
all the tkd<es, and drops, ami leaves, and blades, and 
grains. 

l^pon love's breast the Church has placed the 
eternal asj). 



LIBHRTY. 






u- 



-■^:.^:^ 



() preserve liberty is the only use for gov- 
enimeiit. There is no other excuse for 
lei;"islaturcs, or j)residents, or courts, for 
statutes or decisions. Lil)erty is not 



, '•> simply a means — it is an cn(\.. Take 
'^ \ from our history, our literature, our 

laws, our hearts — that word, and we are noui^lit I)Ut 
moulded clay. Liberty is the one priceless jewel. It 
includes and holds and is the weal and wealth of life, 
iahertv is the soil and lii;"ht ami I'ain — it is the |)lant 
antl hud and flower and fruit — and in that sacred 
wortl lie' all the seeds of progress, lo\'e and joy. 

Liberty is not a social cpiestion. Civil ecpiality is 
not social e(|uality. We are ecpial only in rights. No 
two persons are of c([ual weight, or heigiit. There 
are no two leaves in all the forests of the earth alike — 
no twai blades of grass — no two grains of sand — no 



two hairs. No two anythini^s in the plnsical work! 
arc precisely ahkc. Neither mental nor physical 
ccpiality can be created 1)\' law, but law recognizes the 
fact that all men ha\e been clothed with equal rights 
by Nature, the mother of us all. 

The man who hates the black man, because he is 
black, has the same spii'it as he wlu> hates the poor 
man, because he is \)oov. It is the spirit of caste. 
The proud useless desi)ises the honest useful. The 
parasite idleness sct>rns the great oak of labor on 
which it feeds and that lifts it to the light. 

I am the inferior of any man whose rights I 
trample under foot. Men are not sui)erior by reason 
of the accidents of race or color. They are superior 
who have the best heart — the best brain. Superiority 
is bt)rn of honesty, of \irtue, of charity, and above all, 
of the lo\-e of liberty. The superior man is the pro\i- 
dcnce of the inferior. He is eves for the l)lind, 
strength for the weak, and a shield for the defenseless. 
He stands erect bv bending above the fallen. He 
rises by lifting others. 



jniKWAH AND I'.RAIIMA. 



'^^ 



' ■' '( ''\^v'^'^ ^^^' '^*^'''-'^'^' ^'I'l^ Jehovah ever said of 
an>- one : " Let his ehil(h"eii be father- 



wile a \\i(h)w ; let his 



//A^-'lJ ehilch'en he eontinuaily Nai^ahoiKJs, atic 



jjei;-; let them seek their bread also out 
(Ojj'S'^ of their desolate plaees ; let the extor- 
tioner catch all that he hath and let the stranger sptMl 
his labor; let there be none to extend mercy unto 
him, neither let there be any to fa\'or his fatherless 
children." if he ex'er said these words, surely he had 
ne\'ei" heard this line, this strain of music, from the 
liindu: "Sweet is the lute to those; who have not 
heard the prattle of tlieir own children." 

jeho\ ah, " from the clouds and dai-kness of Sinai," 
said to the Jews: " 'I'hou shalt ha\e no other gods 
l)efore me. . . . Thou shalt not bow down thyself to 
them nor serve them; ior I, the Lord thy Ood, am a 



204 Ji:iIO\AII AND r.RAIIMA. 

jcakuis C'ichI, \isitiiif;' the inicjuitics tif the fathers updii 
the ehilch'en, uiilo the third aiul tourth generatit)n of 
tliem that hate me." Contrast this with the words 
put I))- the lliiuhi in the mouth of lirahma: "I am 
the same to all mankind. riie\- w ho honestl)- ser\e 
other Q-ods, in\-oluntaril\- wcMship me. I am he who 
partaketh of all wt)rship, and I am the reward of all 
worshipi-rs." 

Compare these passages. The tirst, a dungeon 
where erawl the things begot of jealous slime ; the 
other, great as the domed tirmament inlaid with suns. 



Tin; IKlili SOUL. 



^j^0^VR\l\.Y every human hrino" (>u;<ht to at- 
r( )^^^ l;ii'i t*> t'lc (liL;iiity of the unit. Surely 
//>^^ it is worth sonulhiuL; to he one, and to 
);_,;->;^* feel that the eensus of the universe would 
J. ])c inconi])lete without counting- )'()U. 
A\ Surely there is i;i-antleur in kuowini;- that 
in the realm of tlioui^ht you are without a chain ; 
that \-ou ha\e the ri^ht to e\|)lore all hei_<;hts and all 
depths; that tlure are no walls or fences, or j)rohil)ited 
places, or sacred corners in all tin: vast expanse of 
thout;iU ; that Nour inltllect owes no alle^'iancc to 
any being', human oi- dixine ; that \'ou hold all in fee, 
and upon no t'ondition, and l)\' no tenui"e, whate\'i-r ; 
that in the woi'ld of nn'iul \-ou -avc relie\ed fi-oni all 
personal dictation, and from the ignorant lyrann\- of 
majorities. Surc:l\' it is worth somethini^' to feel that 
there are no priests, no p<)j)es, no parties, no i;;overn- 



206 THE FREK SOUL. 

incnts, IK) kings, no gods, to whom y<Hir intellect can 
be connjelled to pay a reluctant homage. Surely it 
is a jov to know that all the cruel ingenuit)' of l)igotrv 
can clexise no prisem, no dungeon, no cell in which 
for one instant to confine a thought; that ideas can- 
not l)e tlislocated by racks, nor crushed in iron boots, 
nor burned with fire. Surely it is sublime to think 
that the brain is a castle, and that within its curit)us 
bastions and winding halls the soul, in spite of all 
worUls and all beings, is the supreme sovereign 
of itself. 



x- 



MY POSITION. 




) not misunderstand me. My position is, 
tliat the cruel passages in the Old Testa- 
ment are not inspired ; that slavery, 
polygamy, wars of extermination, and 
religious persecution always have been, 
are, and forexer will be, abhorred and 
cursed by the honest, the \irtuous, and the loving ; 
that the innocent cannot justly suffer for the guilty ; 
that \icarious vice and vicarious virtue are equally 
absurtl ; that eternal punishment is eternal revenge ; 
that onl\' the natural can hapj)en ; that miracles prove 
the dishonesty of the few and the credulity of the 
man\' ; and that, according to Matthew, Mark, and 
Luke, salvation does not depend upon belief, nor 
the atonement, nor a " second birth," but that these 
gospels are in exact harmou)- with the declaration 
of the great Persian : " Taking the tirst footstep with 



208 MY POSITION. 

the good thouj^ht, the second with the good word, 
and the third with the good deed, I entered paradise." 
Tile dogmas of tlie [)ast no lt)nger reach tlie level 
of the highest thouglit, nor satisfy tlie hunger of the 
heart. Wdiile dusty faiths, embalmed and sepulchred 
in ancient texts, remain the same, the sympathies 
of men enlarge ; the brain no longer kills its }-oung; 
the happv li|)s gi\e liberty to honest thoughts ; the 
mental tirinament expands and lifts ; the broken 
clouds drift by ; and hideous dreams, the foul, mis- 
shapen children of the monstrous night, dissohe and 
fade. 




GOOD AND BAD. 



pjpONSEQUENCES determine the quality 
of an action. If consequences are i;ood, 
so is the action. If actions had no con- 
sequences, they would be neither good 
nor bad. Man did not get his knowledge 
of the consequences of actions from 
God, but from experience and reason. If man can, 
by actual experiment, discover the right and wrong 
of actions, is it not utterly illogical to declare that they 
who do not l)elicve in God can have no standard ot 
right and wrong? Consequences are the standard by 
which actions are judged. They are the children that 
testify as to the real character of their parents. (lod, 
or no God, larceny is the enemy of industry ; industry 
is the mother of prosperity ; prosperity is a good, and 
therefore larceny is an evil. God, or no God, murder 
is a crime. There has always been a law against 



2IO tiOOL) AND UAD. 

larceny, because the laborer wishes to enjoy the fruit 
of his t(Ml. As loni^' as men object to being killed, 
murder will be illegal. 

We know that acts are good, or bad, only as they 
affect the actors, and others. We know that from 
every good act good consequences How, and that from 
every bad act there are only e\il results, livery 
x'irtuous deed is a star in the moral firmament. There 
is in the moral world, as in the physical, the absolute 
and perfect relation of cause and effect. For this 
reason, the atonement becomes an impossibilii}'. 
Others may suffer by your crime, but their suffering 
cannot discharge you ; it simply increases your guilt 
and adds to your burden. For this reason, happiness 
is not a reward — it is a consequence. Suffering is 
not a punishnient — it is a result. 



THE MIRACULOUS BOOK. 







JrgY LITTLE while ago I saw one of the bihlcs 
j-lj of the Middle Ages. It was about two 
feet in length, and one-and-a-half in width. 
It had immense oaken eo\ers, with hasps, 
and elasps, and hinges large enough 
almost for the doors of a penitentiary. It was covered 
with ])ictures of winged angels and aureoled saints. 
In my imagination I saw this book carried to the 
cathedral altar in solemn pomp ; heard the chant 
of robed and kneeling priests ; felt the strange tremor 
of tlie organ's peal ; saw the colored light streaming- 
through windows stained and touched bv blood and 
tlame — tile swinging censer with its perfumed incense 
rising to the mighty roof, dim with height and 
rich with legend carved in stone, while on the walls 
was hung, written in light, and shade, and all the 
colors that can tell of joy and tears, the pictured 



212 Till' MIRACl'LOrS P.OOK. 

histoi"}- of the niart)Tcd Clirist. The i)e()[)le fell upon 
their knees. The book was oj)ened, and the priest 
read the pretended messages from (iod to man. To 
the ignorant multitude, the book itself was e\ idenee 
enough that it was not the work of human hands, 
ricnv eould those little marks and lines and dots con- 
tain, like toml)S, the thoughts of men, and how could 
they, tcniched by a rav of ligiit from human e\-es, 
gi\e up tluir ck\ul ? How could those crooked 
characters span the \ast chasm between the present 
and the j)ast, and make it possible for living men to 
hear the silent \t)iees o{ the dead ? 



/^ 



ORTHODOX DOTAGE. 




N this rii^t' of fact and dcnionstration, it is 
rcfrcshiiii;' to fiiul a man wlio l^clicves 
thoroughly in tlic monstrous and miracu- 
lous, the impossible and immoral ; who 
still clings lovingly to the legends of the 
bil) and rattle ; who through the hiitcT 
expericnces of a wicked world has kept the ci-edulity 
of the cradle, and frnds comfort and joy in thinking 
about the Oarden of lulen, the subtile serpent, the 
flood, and iJabel's tower stoppc'd by the jargon of a 
thousand tcjngues ; who reads with hapj)y e\'es the 
story of the burning brimstone stoi-m that Rll u|)on 
the cities of the plain, and smilingly e.\])lains the 
transformation of the retros])ecti\e Mrs. f.ot ; wlio 
laughs at I'Igypt's plagues and Pharaoh's whelmed 
and drowning hosts ; cats manna with the wander- 
ing Jews, warms himself at the burning bush, sees 



214 ORTHODOX DOTAGE. 

Korah's compaii)' by the hungry earth devoured, 
claps his w rinkled hands with glee above the heathens' 
butchered babes, and longingly looks back to the 
patriarchal da\"s of concubines and shues. How 
tiiuching, when the learned and wise cra\\l back in 
cribs and ask to hear the rhvnies and fables once 
again ! How charming in these hard and scientific 
times, to see old age in Superstition's lap, with eager 
lips upt)n her withered breast! 



THE ABOLITIONISTS. 




L.WTiRV held l)oth branches of Congress; 
tilled the chair of the Executive ; sat upon 
the supreme bench ; had in its hands all 
rewards, all ofhces ; knelt in the ]x;w; 
J'SW^ occupied the pulpit; stole human beings 
in the name of (iod; robbed the trundle- 
bed for love of Christ; incited mobs; led ignorance; 
ruled colleges; sat in the chairs of professors; dominated 
the ])ublie press ; closed the lips of free speech, ;md 
polluted with its leprous hand c\'ery source antl 
spring of power. The abolitionists attacked this 
monster. They were the bra\-est, grandest men of 
their country and their century. Denounced by 
thie\'es, hated b\" h\'j)ocrites, mobbed b\' cowards, 
slandered b\- ])riests, shunned l)y politicians, abhorred 
bv the seekers o{ office, — these men "of whom the 
world was not worthy," in spite of all opposition, in 



2l6 THE ABOLITIONISTS. 

spite of poverty and want, conquered innumerable 
obstacles, never faltering for one moment, never dis- 
mayed, accepting defeat with a smile born of infinite 
hope — knowing that they were right — insisted and 
persisted until every chain was broken, until slave- 
pens became school-houses, and three millions of 
slaves became free men, women, and children. 



X' 



PROVIDENCE. 

jl^^ j^' 1)EI>IEF in special providence does away 

' ii k^'i ^^''t''' t'""-' ^P""'t of investio-ation, and is 

Jj^^ >j inconsistent with personal et^brt. Why 

>/:|L^/' should man endeavor to thwart the 

frii^ designs of God ? " Which of you, by 
taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature?" 
Under the influence of this belief, man, basking in the 
sunshine of a delusion, "considers the lilies of the field" 
and refuses to "take any thought Ibr the morrow." 
Believing himself in the power of an intinite being, 
who can, at any moment, dash him to the lowest hell, 
or raise him to the highest heaven, he necessarily 
abandons the idea of accomplishing anything by his 
own efforts. As long as this belief was general, the 
world was filled with ignorance, superstition and 
misery. The energies of man were wasted in a vain 
effort to obtain the aid of this power, supposed to be 



2l8 PROVIDl'NCH. 

superior to nature. I'or countless at;es, c\'en men 
\\ere sacrilicetl U|)on the altar of this inipossihU' s^ctl. 
'Vo please him, mothers ha\e shed the blood of their 
own babes ; mart\rs ha\e chanted triumphant songs 
in the midst of llame ; [)riests ha\c gorged themsehes 
with blood ; nuns ha\ e forsworn the ecstacies of lo\-e ; 
t)ld mill ha\e tremblingh' imploretl ; women ha\e 
sobbi'tl and entreated ; e\ er\' pain has been enduretl, 
and e\er\' horror has been perpetratetl. 

Through the dim long Nears that ha\-e fled, 
humanil\- has sufferetl more than can \)c concei\etl. 
Most of the niiser\- has been entlured b\' the weak, 
the lo\ing and the innocent. Women ha\e been 
treated like j)oisonous beasts, and little children 
trampletl upon as though they had been \ei-min. 
Ni^Kiberless altars ha\ i' been redtlened, e\'cn with the 
blood of babes; beautiful girls ha\e been gi\en to 
slim\- serpents, wlu)le races of men doomed to 
centuries ol sla\'er\-, ami e\'er\\\here there has been 
luitrage besontl the power of genius to express. 
During all these \ears t!ie suffering ha\e supplicated ; 
the witheretl lips of famine ha\e pra\-etl ; the jiale 
\ictims ha\e implored, and llea\en has been deaf 
and blmd. 



THE AL'VN CHRIST 




<)R the man Christ — for the reformer 
(QS^i'ip who l()\e(l his fellow-men — for the man 
^y^^^Ai \vho l)elie\-ed in an Infinite I'ather, who 
woulil shield tlu' innoeent and proteet 
the just — for the mart\r who expeeted 
to he reseuetl from the eruel cross, and 
who at last, finding- that his hope was dust, cried out 
in the s^atherini^ gloom of death: " M\- ( iotl i 
My (iod ! \\'hy hast thou forsaken me ?" — for that 
■great and suffering man, mistaken though he was, I 
ha\e the highest admiration and res|)ect. That man 
did not, as I beliexe, claim a miraculous origin. He 
did not pi'etend to heal the sick or raise the dead. 
He claimed simph' to be a man, and taught his 
fellow -men that lo\e is stronger far than hate. His 
lite was written l)y reverent ignorance. Lo\ing 
crt-dulity belittled his career with feats of jugglery 



220 THE MAN CHRIST. 

and magic art, and priests, wishing to persecute and 
slay, put in his mouth the words of hatred and re- 
venge. The theological Christ is the impossible 
union of the human and dixine — man with the 
attributes of God. and God with the limitations and 
weaknesses of man. 




THE DIVINE SALUTATION. 



HEN I was a boy I used to see steamers 
!^^2 I li I go down the Mississippi with hundreds 
of men and women chained hand to 
hand, and men standing" about them 
with whips in their hands and pistols 
in their pockets in the name of liberty, 
in the name of civilization and in the name of religion ! 
I used to hear them preach to these slaves in the 
South, and the only text they ever took was " Servants 
be obedient unto your masters." That was the 
salutation of the most merciful God to a man whose 
back was bleeding. That was the salutation of the 
loving Christ to the slave-mother bending over an 
empty cradle, to the woman from whose breast a child 
had been stolen — "Servants be obedient unto your 
masters." That was what they said to a man running 
for his life and for his liberty through tangled swamps, 
and listening for the baying of blood-hounds ; and 
when he listened the angelic voice came from heaven : 
" Servants be obedient unto your masters." 



AT rilE GRAVE OF BENJ. W. PARKER. 




RIENDS and 



'I'o fulfill a 



promise made many )-ears aL;t), I wish 

to sav a word. 

He whom wc are about to lay in the 

earth, was j^entle, kind and loxins^- in his 

life, lie was ambitious only to live with 
those he lo\ed. lie was hospitable, g-enerous, and 
sineere. He lo\ed his friends, and the friends of his 
frientls. He returned y,()od for good. He li\ed the 
life of a ehild, and died without leaving in the memory 
of his familv the record of an unkind act. W'ithcnit 
assurance, and without fear, we gi\-e him back to 
Nature, the source and mother of us all. 

With morn, with noon, with night; with changing 
clouds and changeless stai"s ; with grass and trees 
and l)irds, with leaf and bud, with flower and blorsom- 
ing \ine, — with all the sweet influences of nature, we 
leaxe our dead. 

Husband, fatlu'r, friend, farewell. 



FASHION AND BEAUTY. 




AM a believer in fashion. It is the dutv of 
every woman to make herself as beautiful 
and attractive as she possibly can. " Hand- 
some is as handsome does;" but she is 
nuicli handsomer if well dressed. Every 
man should look his very best. I am a 
believer in good clothes. The time never ought to 
ct)me in this country when you can tell a farmer's 
daughter simi)l\- by the garments she wears. I say 
to every girl and woman, no matter what the material 
of your dress may be, no matter how cheap and coarse 
It IS, cut it and make it in the fashion. I belicxe in 
jewelr)'. Some people look U])on it as barbaric, but 
in m)- judgment, wearing jewelrv is the first ex'idence 
the barbarian gives of a wish to be civilized. To adorn 
ourselves seems to be a part of our nature, and this 
desire seems to be everywhere and in everything. I 



224 FASHION AM) lU'AirrN-. 

ha\'c sonictiiiics tlioui^ht that the desire fur beauty 
ci)\'ers the earth with lltnxers, paints the \\iiij;s of 
moths, tints the ehaniher of the shell, and gi\es the 
bird its phnnai;!.' ami its soni;. O (.laughters and 
\\i\es, if \-ou \\a)uld be lo\'ed, adorn \-oursehes — if 
)-ou would be adt)red, be beautiful ! 



/- 



APOSTROIMIl' TO SCIHNCl^ 




HOU aloiu' ])crf()rnicst the true miracle. 

\ Thou aloiU' art llic worker of real won- 

lers. Thou knowest the circuits of the 

t Tr^'V"'' \\''i'l — thou knowest "whence it conieth 

^^^^^M and whither it .i^oeth." Fire is thy serv- 

^ 1^ ant and lii^htnin^ thy messenger! 

Thou art the ,<;Teat i)hilant]iro])ist. Thou hast 

freed the slaxc and t:i\ili/,i-d the master. Thou hast 

tam^ht man to encliain, not his fellow man, hut the 

forces of nature — forcts that ha\e no hacks to be 

scarred, no limhs for chains to chill and eat — forces 

that never know fatigue, forces that shed no tears, 

forces that ha\'e no hearts to break ! 

'Idiou art the great physician. Thv touch hath 
given sight; thou hast made the lame to lea]), the 
dumlj to si)eak, and in the pallid face thy hand hath 
set the rose of healtli. 'Ihou art the destroyer of 



226 



AroSl-ROlMII-: TO SCII'NCH. 



pain. riuHi "hasl j;i\cii lh\- l)clo\ccl sleep, " ami 
w i"a|)t in happ\ ilrcanis the thiohbin";- iierws i)( pain. 

riioii art the perpelu.il proxicKnee of man — 
liuiicler of hiiines, pi-eser\er of lo\e antl life! Tluui 
^axi'st ns [he plow ami loom, antl thou ha^t leil ami 
elolhed the worKl ! 

Thou .nl the teaehei- of e\-ei-\- \ii-lut', the I'nenu' 
ot i'\ rr\ \ iee, tliseo\ erei" of e\ei"\- fact. Thou hast 
i;i\ tn the true basis o\ morals — tlu' orii^in antl office 
of conscit'iice. Thou hasl ie\ ealed the nature of (t|)- 
lij;alion, aaul hast tauL;hl thai justice i,^ the hiyjiest 
form o\' lo\e. Thou hast show n that e\en self-love, 
^uidetl by inlelli<^ence, embraces with lo\ in;.^' arms 
tlu' human race. 

Thou h.ist slain the mimslei-s oi supt'rslition, and 
thou hast !4i\en to man the one inspired book, V\\ou 
hast read the recortls ol the rocks, wiatten by wind 
anil wa\e, b\- frost .uul fu'e — ri'coi-ds that i-\ en priest- 
craft cammt cham^e, aiul in th\ wondrous scales hast 
weii;-hed tlu- .itom .uul the star ! 

Thou hast founded, llu- true reli^i<Mi, Tluni art 
the \-er\- C'hrisl, the onl\- saxiour of maidxiiul ! 



ELIZUR WRICJIT. 




NOTIII-k h,n, li.is fallen aslcc'|) — one 
who cnriiiucl tiu' world with an honest 
life. 

I{lizur W^ri^ht was one of the Titans 
who atlac:ke(l the nionstcrs, the ( iods, 
of his time — ont: of the few whose 
confidence in liberlx' was ne\ er shaken, and w ho, with 
imdimnied eyes, saw the atrocities and haiharisins of 
his day and the glories of the futui-e. 

When New York was de-raded enou-h to mob 
Artliiu- 'I"aj)i)an, the noi)list of her eili/ens ; w hen 
Boston was sufficiently infamous to howl and hoot at 
Harriet Martineau, the grandest I'Jii^lish woman that 
ever touched our soil ; w lun the north was dominated 
by theoloM-y and trade, by piety and pirac)' ; when we 
received our morals from me'n hants, and made mer- 
chandise of our morals, I'li/ur W'ri-hl held princ i|)le 



228 ELIZUR WRKiHT. 

above profit, and preserxcd his manhood at the peril 
of his fife. 

When the rich, the cultured, and the respecta- 
ble, — when church members and ministers, who had 
been "called" to preach the "glad tidings," and 
when statesmen like Webster joined with blood- 
hounds, and in the name of (iod hunted men and 
mothers, this man rescued the fugitives and gave 
as}lum to the oppressed. 

During those infimKuis years — years of cruelty and 
national degradation — years of hypocrisy and greed 
and meanness beneath the reach of any English \\ord, 
Elizur W^right became acquainted with the orthodox 
church. He found that a majority of Christians were 
willing to enslave men and women for whom they 
said that Christ had died — that they would steal the 
babe of a Christian mother, although they believed 
that the mother would be their etjual in heaven for- 
ever. He found that those who lo\ed their enemies 
would enslave their friends — that people who when 
smitten on one cheek turned the other, were ready, 
willing and anxious to mob and murder those who 
simph' said " The laborer is wt)rthv t)f his hire." 

In those days the church was in favor of slavery, 



ELIZl'K WRIGHT. 229 

not only of the body but of the mind. According tfj 
the creeds, God himself was an infinite master and 
all his children serfs. He ruled with whip and chain, 
with |)estilence and fire. Devils were his blood- 
hounds, and hell his place of eternal torture. 

lilizur Wright said to himself, why should we 
take chains- from bodies and enslave minds — why 
fight to free the cage and leave the bird a prisoner ? 
Fie became an enemy of orthodox religion — that is 
to say, a friend of intellectual liberty. 

He lived to see the destruction of legalized lar- 
ceny ; to read the Proclamation of Emancipation ; to 
see a country without a slave, a flag without a stain. 
He lived long enough to reap the reward for having 
been an honest man ; long enough for his "disgrace" 
to become a crown of glory ; long enough to see 
his views adopted and his course applauded by the 
civilized world ; long enough for the hated word 
"abolitionist" to become a title of nobility, a certificate 
of manhood, courage and true patriotism. 

Only a few years ago, the heretic was regarded 
as an enemy of the human race. The man who 
denied the inspiration of the Jewish Scriptures was 
looked upon as a moral le])er, and the atheist as the 



230 ELIZUR WRIGHT. 

worst of criminals. Even in that day, Elizur Wright 
was grand enough to speak his honest thought, to 
deny the inspiration of the bible ; brave enough to 
defy the God of the orthodox church — the Jehovah 
of the Old Testament, the Eternal Jailor, the Ever- 
lasting Inquisitor. 

He contended that a good God ^^■ould not have 
upheld slavery and polygamy ; that a lo\'ing Father 
would not assist some of his children to enslave or 
exterminate their brethren ; that an infinite being 
would not be unjust, irritable, jealous, revengeful, 
ignorant, and cruel. 

And it was his great good fortune to live long 
enough to find the intellectual world on his side ; 
long enough to know that the greatest naturalists, 
philosophers, and scientists agreed with him ; long 
enough to see certain words change places, so that 
"heretic" was honorable and "orthodox" an epithet. 
To day, the heretic is known to be a man of principle 
and courage — one blest with enough mental indepen- 
dence to tell his thought. To day, the thoroughly 
orthodox means the thoroughly stupid. 

Only a few years ago it was taken for granted 
that an "unbeliever" could not be a moral man ; that 



ELIZUR WRIGHT. 23 I 

one who disputed the inspiration of the legends of 
Judea eoLild not be sympathetic and humane, and 
could not really hne his fellow-men. Had we no 
other evidence upon this subject, the noble life of 
Elizur Wright would demonstrate the utter baseless- 
ness of these views. 

His life was spent in doing good — in attacking 
the hurtful, in defending what he believed to be the 
truth. Generous beyond his means ; helping others 
help themselves ; always hopeful, busy, just, cheerful ; 
filled with the spirit of reform ; a model citizen — 
always thinking of the public good, devising ways 
and means to save something for posterity, feeling 
that what he had he held in trust ; loving Nature, 
familiar with the poetic side of things, touched to 
enthusiasm by the beautiful thought, the bra\'e word, 
and the generous deed ; friendly in manner, candid 
and kind in speech, modest but persistent ; enjoying 
leisure as only the industrious can ; loving and gentle 
in his family ; hospitable, — judging men and women 
regardless of wealth, position or public clamor ; 
physically fearless, intellectually honest, thoroughly 
informed ; unselfish, sincere, and reliable as the 
attraction of trravitation. Such was Elizur Wright, 



232 ELIZUR WRIGHT. 

— one of the staunchest soldiers that ever faced and 
braxed for freedom's sake the wrath and scorn and 
lies of place and power. • 

A few days ago 1 met this genuine man. His 
interest in all human things was just as deep and 
keen, his hatred of oppression, his love of freedom, 
just as intense, just as ferxid, as on the day I met him 
first. True, his bod\- was old, but his mind \\as 
young, and his heart, like a spring in the desert, 
bubbled over as joyously as though it had the secret 
of eternal youth. But it has ceased to beat, and the 
mysterious \eil that hangs where sight and blindness 
are the same — the \eil that re\'elation has not drawn 
aside — that science cannot lift, has fallen once again 
between the living and the dead. 

<And yet we hope and dream. May be the longing 
for another life is but the prophecy forever warm from 
Nature's lips, that love, disguised as death, alone 
fulfills. W^e cannot tell. And yet perhaps this Hope 
is but an antic, f(-)llowing the fortunes of an uncrowned 
king, beguiling grief with jest and satisfying loss with 
pictured gain. We do not know. 

But from the Christian's cruel hell, and from his 
hea\-en more heartless still, the free and noble soul, 



ELizuK WKi(;ni. 233 

if forced to choose, should loathing turn, and cling 
with ra|)turc to the thought of endless sleep. 

But this we know : good deeds are never childless. 
A noble life is never lost. A virtuous action does not 
die. I{lizur Wright scattered with generous hand the 
priceless seeds, and we shall reap the golden grain. 
His words and acts are ours, and all he nobly did is 
living still. 

P^arewell, brave soul ! Upon thy grave I lav this 
tribute of respect and love. When last our hands 
were joined, I said the.se parting words : " Long life J " 
And I repeat them now. 



THE IMAGINATION. 




HE man of Imagination, — that is to say, 
of genius — having seen a leaf and a drop 
of water, can construct the forests, the 
ri\'ers, and the seas. In his presence all 
the cataracts fall and foam, the mists rise, 
the clouds form and float. 
To really know one fact, is to know its kindred 
and its neighbors. Shakespeare looking at a coat of 
mail, instantl\- imagined the society, the conditions, 
that produced it, and a\ hat it produced. He saw the 
castle, the moat, the draw-bridge, the lady in the 
tower, and the knighUy lover spurring over the plain. 
He saw the bold baron and the rude retainer, the 
trampled serf, and all the glory and the grief of feudal 
life. 

The man of imagination has lived the life of all 
people, of all races. He was a citizen of Athens in 



THli IM.\(;iNATION. 235 

the tlays of I'criclcs ; listened to the eager eloquence 
of the great orator, and sat upon the cHff and witli 
the tragic poet heard "the multitudinous laughter of 
the sea." He saw Socrates thrust the spear of ques- 
tion through the shield and heart of falsehood ; was 
present when the great man drank hemlock and met 
the night of death tranquil as a star meets morning. 
He has followed the peripatetic philosophers, and has 
been puzzled by the sophists. He has watched 
Phidias as he chiseled shapeless stone to forms of 
love and awe. 

He has lived b)^ the slow Nile amid the vast and 
monstrous. He knows the very thought that wrought 
the form and features of the Sphinx. He has heard 
great Memnon's morning song — has lain him down 
with the emljalmed and waiting dead, and felt within 
their dust the expectation of another life mingled with 
coUl and suffocating doubts — the children born of 
long delay. 

He has walked the ways of mighty Rome, has 
seen great Cresar with his legions in the field, has 
stood with vast and motley throngs and watched 
the triumphs given to victorious men, followed by 
uncrowni'd kings, the ca]:)tured hosts, and all the 



236 THE IMAGINATION. 

spoils of ruthless war. He has heard the shout that 
shook the Cohseum's roofless walls when from the 
reeling gladiator's hand the short sword fell, while 
from his bosom gushed the stream of wasted life. 

He has lived the life of savage men, has trod the 
forest's silent depths, and in the desperate game of 
life or death has matched his thought against the 
instinct of the beast. 

He knows all crimes and all regrets, all virtues 
and their rich rewards. He has been victim and 
victor, pursuer and pursued, outcast and king — has 
heard the applause and curses of the world, and on 
his heart ha\e fallen all the nights and noons of fail- 
ure and success. 

He knows the unspoken thoughts, the dumb 
desires, the wants and ways of beasts. He has felt 
the crouching tiger's thrill, the terror of the ambushed 
prey, and with the eagles he has shared the ecstasy 
of flight and poise and sw(,)op, and he has lain with 
sluggish serpents on the barren rocks, uncoiling 
slowly in the heat of noon. 

He has sat beneath the bo tree's contemplative 
shade, rapt in Huddha's mighty thought ; and he has 
dreamed all dreams that Light, the alchemist, hath 



Tlir. IMAGINATION. 237 

\vr()UL;-lit from dust and dew and stored within the 
slunil)rous popp}'s subtle blood. 

He has knelt with awe and dread at e\ery shrine, 
has offered every sacrifice and e\ery prayer, has felt 
the consolation and the shuddering fear, has seen all 
devils, has mocked and worshiped all the gods — 
enjoye'd all heavens antl felt the pangs of every hell. 

He has lived all li\es, and through his blood and 
brain have crept the shadow and the chill of every 
death; and his soul, Mazeppa-like, has been lashed 
naked to the wild horse of every fear and lo\e and 
hate. 

The imagination hath a stage within the brain, 
whereon he sets all scenes that lie between the morn 
of laughter and the night of tears, and where his 
players body forth the false and true, the joys and 
griefs, the careless shallows and the tragic dee])s of 
every life. 



NO RESPECTER OF PERSOiNS. 



l^il?5.^EEING the sun shine as well on nations 
r(^)Xs^is<| that mocked Jehovah as on the one that 




)rshi|)ecl him — that the rain fell on the 
l)^ unjust as well as upt)n the just — that the 
miracle of growth was wrought for all — 
the ancient belie\'ers in God were forced 
to declare: "Our God is ut) res|)ecter of persons." 

Seeing the dishonest succeed, the honest fail — 
seeing vice in purple, \irlue in rags — labor with a 
crust, itUeness at a bancpiet — the)' were forced to 
adjourn all these cases to antHher world. 

There was one step more: Those who were the 
most pious seemed to be the most miserable. The 
anointed of God com|)lained of the success and glory 
and triumidi of the w icked. I)ri\en to the conclusion 
that those who loved Cod suffered the most, they 
said : " Whom the Lord Un'eth he chasteneth." 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 



^ '^lf^Si^^V\\AN('.\i minj^lin.i; of mirth and tears, of 
^ '^^k' t-'i^' trai^MC and i^r()tcs(|uc, of cap and crown, 
■):'<f"S^ of Socrates and Rabelais, of .lisoi) and 



Marcii 



Aurelius, of all that is i;entle and 
2'fcw'^ just, humorous and honest, merciful, wise, 
^ (^ lausrhable, lo\'al)le, and divine, and all con- 
secrated to the use of man ; while through all, and 
over all, an overwdielmiiiL;' sense of ohlii^ation, of 
chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon all, the shadow of 
the traj^ic end. 

Nearly all the i^reat historic characters arc: imj)os- 
sible monsters, dis|)roportioned by flattery, or by 
calumny deformed. We know nothing of their 
peculiarities, or nothing but their ])eculiarities. About 
the roots of these oaks there clings none of the earth 
of humanity. Washington is now oidy a steel 
engraving. About the real man who lived and loved 



240 



AHUAHAM LINCOLN. 



ami haled and scluinnl wt' know hut little. The 
;.;lass lhi-i)ui;h w hich we look at him is of such high 
mav^niiN ini;' power th.it the iVatures ai"e exceedinj^ly 
indisliiiet. 1 lundi"eds ot people are now t'ni;a;^ed in 
smoothinL; out the lines of Lincoln's face — forcinj.;" all 
featui-es to the common mouKl — so that he ma\' he 
know 11. not .IS lie realh' was, hut, accordint;' to their 
pool- sl.uulai-d, .is lu' slunild ha\-e heeiL 

Lincoln w.is not a t\ pi'. lie stands alont' — no 
ancestors.no fellows, and no successors. lie had 
the ail\ antai^'c of li\ inj^ in a new countr\-, of social 
e(|ualil\, of personal freedouL of seeim;' in the horizon 
of his fului\' the perpetual star iA hopi'. lie pix'- 
st'r\ed his indi\ idu.ilit\- .md his self-resi)ecl. He 
kni'w .ind mingled with men of e\er\- kind; and, after 
all,.men are the hest hctoks. lie hecame acipi.iinted 
with the .unhitions and hopes of the heart, the means 
useil to .iccomplish entls, the s])rings of action and 
the seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature, 
with actual things, with common facts. He lo\ed 
ami ap|vreciated the |)oem of the war, the drama of 
the seasons. 

In .1 m'w country a man must possess at least 
three \ irlues — honestx', courage, antl generositv. In 



AI!UAM/\M LINCOLN. 



241 



cullivaU'd society, ciilti\;ili()ii is oftm moin,' iii)i)oi-t;int 
than soil. A well e.\eeule(I eoiiiilerfeil passi'S more 
readily than a blurred <^eiuiine. It is necessary only 
to ol)sei-\e the iiiiwrilten laws of society — to be 
honest enoiiu;h to keep out of |)risoii, and (generous 
enough to subsei-ibe in public — where the subsci'iption 
can be defended as an in\-estnieiit. in a new country, 
character is essential ; in the old, i-e|)utation is sufli- 
cient. in the new, the)- lind what a man reall\ is ; 
in the old, he ^vner.dly p.isses for what he resembles. 
People separated oid\' by distance are much nearer 
toL;cther than those di\ided 1)\' the walls of caste. 

it is no acl\anta<;c lo li\'e in a i;reat city, where 
])o\crty degrades ,uid fiilure brim^s despaii". The 
fields are loxclier than pavc'd strec:ts, and the ,-;reat 
forests than walls of brick. ( ),iks and elms are more 
poetic; than steeples and c himnc'ys. in the country 
is the idc:a of home. There \(iu see the risiiiL; and 
settini;- sun ; you become ac (piainted with the stars 
and clouds. 'i'he constell.itions .are your fric;nds. 
You hear the rain on the roof ;md listen to the rh\th- 
mic si_t.;hin,i; of the: winds. N on are thrilled by the 
resurrection called Sprim^, touched and saddened by 
Autumn — the ^race and |)oetry of death. li\cry field 



242 



AKKAllAM I.lNClU.N. 



is a pioturc, a landscape ; c\ cry laiulscapc a poem ; 
c\cr\- tlowcr a U'luk'i- thouj^lu, aiul c\cr_\- 't\)rcst a 
laii\ -laiul. In llu- ci)untr\ \ou jircscrvc Nour itk'ii- 
lil\ — \ our pt'rsoiialilN . There you are an ai;'i;rei;alion 
of atoms, hut in the eily \ ou an- only an atom of an 
a!;j;rej;ation. 

Lincoln ne\cr tinished his education. To the 
nis.;ht of his death he was a pupil, a learner, an iiu|uirer, 
a seekei- .ifter know ledi^e. ^"ou U.wc no itlea how 
man\ men are spoileil In wh.it is called etlucation. 
I'or the most p.u't, colleges avc places w hei-e pebbles 
are polished anil iliamonds aie tlimmcd. if Shake- 
speare h.ul i^railu.ited at 0\k>rd, he mi<;ht have been 
a ([uibblim^- attornew or a h\pi)critical |)arS(Mi. 

Lincoln w.is a man\-sitleil man, accpiaintc-d with 
sinilcs anil tears, complex in brain, single in heart, 
direct as li«;ht ; ami his words, candid as mirrors, 
«;.i\e till' perk'Ct im.ij;e y^\ his thought. He was 
never .ifiMiil to ask — ne\er too di>;nitied to admit 
th.it he did not know. No man hail keener wit, or 
kinder humoi". \lc was not solemn. Solemnity is a 
ma^k worn b\- iL^norance and h\i)ocris\- — it is the 
pref.ice, proloi^iie, and index to the cunnini;' or the 
stupid IK- was natural in his life and thoui^ht — 



.\i;k,\ii.\,m lincoin. 243 

master of the slorv'-lellcr's ait, in ilhislration apt, in 
application |)irlt(.l, liberal in s|)cecli, siiockiniL; I'liai'i- 
sccs and prudes, usini;' any woid ijiat wit (ould 
disinfect. 

lie was a logician. Loi;ic is the necissary |iro(ln(l 
of inlelii^cnee and sinei'i"it\. It lannol l)e leaiiud. 
It is the child of a clear head and a -ood heart, 
lie was candid, and with candor often deceixcd 
tlu' deceitful. lie had intellect without arroj^ance, 
i^cnius without piide, and |-elii_;ion without cant — that 
is to sa\', without hi^otrx' and without deceit. 

lie was an oi'ator — deal-, sincere, natural. lie 
did not i)retend. lie did not say what he lhou,«;hl 
others thou;^hl, hut what he lhoui.;hl. If you wish 
to be sublime you must be natui-al — you must kee|) 
close to the <;rass. You must sit by tlu' fu'eside of 
the heart: aboxc the clouds it is too cold. Von 
must be sim|)le in your speech: loo much polish 
suij^gcsts insincerity. The ^reat orator idealizes the 
real, transfigures the (onunon, makes iven the in- 
animate throb and thrill, fills the ;^allery of the 
imagination with statues and pictures perfect in foiin 
and color, brings to lii;ht the i^old hoarded by 
nicmoi'y the miser, shows the glitterini^ coin to 



244 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

the spendthrift hope, enriches the brain, ennobles 
the heart, and ([uickens the conscience. Between his 
lips words bud and blossom. 

If \()u wish to know the difference between an 
orator and an elocutionist — between what is felt and 
what is said — between what the heart and brain can 
do together and what the brain can do alone — read 
Lincoln's wondrous words at Ciettysl)urg, and then 
the speech of Iidward Ii\erett. The oration of Lin- 
coln will never be forgotten. It will li\e until 
languages are dead and lips are dust. The speech 
of Everett will never be read. The elocutionists 
believe in the \irtue of \'oice, the sublimitv of syntax, 
the majesty of long sentences, and the genius of 
gesture. The orator loves the real, the simple, the 
nattffal. He places the thought above all. He knows 
that the greatest ideas should be expressed in the 
shortest words — that the greatest statues need the 
least drapery. 

Lincoln was an immense personality — firm but not 
obstinate. Obstinacy is egotism — firmness, heroism. 
He influenced others without effort, unconsciously; 
and they submitted to him as men submit to nature, 
unconsciouslv. He was severe with himself, and for 



Al'.RAHAM LINCOLN. 245 

that reason lenient with others. lie appeared to 
aj)oloL;ize for heins^' kinder tliaii his iVHows. lie did 
niereiful thint^s as stealthil)- as others eoniniitted 
crimes. yVlniost ashamed of tenderness, he said and 
did the noblest words and deeds with that charming;' 
confusion, that awkwardness, that is the jjerfect grace 
of modesty. .As a ni)])]c man, wishing to pay a 
small debt to a poor neighbor, reluctantly offers a 
luuKJi-ed-dolJar bill and asks for change, fearing that 
he may be suspected either of making a dis])la\- of 
wealth oi" a pretense of ])aynient, so Lincoln hesitated 
to show his wealth of goodness, even to the best he 
knew. 

A great man stooping, not wishing to make his 
fellows feel that they were small or mean. 

He knew others, because })erfectly accjuainted with 
himself He cared nothing for ])lace, but ever}- 
thing for principle ; nothing for money, but everything 
for independence. W'hei'e no princi|)le was inxoh c;d, 
easily swaved — willing to go slowly if in the right 
direction — sometimes willing to stop ; but he would 
not go l)ack, and he would not go wrong. He was 
willing to wait. He knew that the event was not 
waiting, and that fate was not the fool of chance. He 



246 AMKAIIAM LINCOLN. 

knew that sla\cr\- liacl elcfcndcrs, l)ut no defense, and 
that they who attaek tlie riy^ht must wound them- 
selves, lie was neithtT t)rant nor sla\e. lie neither 
knelt nor seornetl. With him, men were neither j^reat 
nor small, — the)' weii: rij^iit or wron^'. Through 
manners, elothes, titles, ra^s and raee he saw the 
real — that whieh is. Heyoiul aeeident, poliew eom- 
l)romise and war he saw the end. He was patient as 
Destiny, whose untleeipherahle hieroglyphs were so 
dee]:)l)- gra\en on his sail and tragic face. 

Nothing disclosi'S ri'al character like the use of 
power. It is eas\ for the weak t(^ he gentle. Most 
peo])le ean hear aiKcrsitx . lUit if \'ou wish to know 
what a man reall\' is, gi\e him ])o\\er. This is the 
supreme test. It is the gior\' of Lineoln that, luuing 
almost absolute power, he m'\-er abused it, except 
upon the side of mercy. 

Wealth could not ])urchase, power cindd nt)t awe, 
this di\ine, this lo\ing man. lie knew no fear e.\ce])t 
the fear of doing wrong. Hating sla\-er\-, pitN'ing 
the master — seeking to cont|uer, not persons, but 
prejudices — he was the embtxliment of the self-tlenial, 
the courage, the hope, and the nobilit\- o( a nation. 
He spoke, not to intlame, not to upbraid, but to con- 



AliKAHAM LINCOLN. 247 

\-iiicc. He raisctl his haiuls, not to strike, hut in 
benediction. He lon<;-ed to partl(jn. He lox'ed to see 
the pearls of joy on the cheeks of a \\ife whose hus- 
band he had rescued from death. 

Lincoln was the grandest figure of the fiercest 
ci\il war. He is the gentlest memory of our world. 



THE MEANING OF LAW. 




*ET it be untlcrstood that by the term Law 
is meant the same invariable relations of 
succession and resemblance, predicated 
of all facts springing from like conditions. 
Law is a fact — not a cause. It is a fact, 
that like conditions produce like results ; 
this fact is Law. When we say that the universe is 
governed by law, we mean that this fact, called law, 
is incapable of change ; that it is, has been, and 
forever will be, the same inexorable, immutable 
Fact, inseparable from all phenomena. Law, in this 
sense, was not enacted or made. It could not have 
been otherwise than as it is. That which necessarily 
exists has no creator. 



WHAT IS BLASPHEMY ? 




f^'O live on the unpaid labor of others. 
To enslave the bodies of men. 
To build dung-eons for the soul. 
To frighten babes with the threat of 
eternal fire. 

To appeal from reason to brute 
force, — from principle to prejudice, — from justice to 
hatred. 

To answer argument with calumny. 

To beat wives and children. 

To reward hypocrisy. 

To persecute for opinion's sake. 

To add to the sum of human misery. 

He who hates, blasphemes. 



SOME REASONS. 




OPPOSE the Church because she is the 
enemy of hberty ; because her dogmas are 
infamous and cruel; because she humiliates 
and degrades women ; because she teaches 
the doctrines of eternal torment and the 
natural depravity of man ; because she 
insists upon the absurd, the impossible, and the sense- 
less ; because she resorts to falsehood and slander ; 
because she is arrogant and revengeful ; because she 
allows men to sin on a credit ; because she discourages 
self-reliance, and laughs at good works ; because she 
believes in vicarious virtue and vicarious vice — 
vicarious punishment and vicarious reward ; because 
she regards repentance of more importance than resti- 
tution, and because she sacrifices the world we have 
to one we know not of. 

The free and generous, the tender and affectionate, 
will understand me. Those who have escaped from 
the grated cells of a creed will appreciate my motives. 
The sad and suffering wives, the trembling and loving- 
children will thank me: This is enough. 



SELECTIONS, 



THE HOLY TRINITY. 




ASON, Observation and Experience — 
the Holy Trinity of Science — have taught 
us that happiness is the only good ; that 
the time to be happy is now, and the wav 
to be happy is to make others so. This 
is enough for us. In this belief we are 
content to hve and die. If by any possibility the ex- 
istence of a power superior to, and independent of, 
nature shall be demonstrated, there will then be time 
enough to kneel. Until then, let us stand erect. 



■ CoMPARKD with Shakespeare's " book and volume 
of the brain," the " sacred " bible shrinks and seems 
as feebly impotent and vain as would a pipe of Pan 
when some great organ, voiced with every tone, 
from the hoarse thunder of the sea to the winged 
warble of a mated bird, fills and floods cathedral 
aisles with all the wealth of sound. 



254 SELECTIONS. 

It is not essential to conjugate the Greek verbs 
before making up your mind as to the probabihty of 
dead people getting out of their graves. 

When a fact can be demonstrated force is un- 
necessary ; when it cannot be demonstrated, force is 
infamous. 

Every church member bears the marks of collar, 
chain and whip. 

Where industry creates, and justice protects, 
prosperity dwells. 

" Blasphemy " is what a last year's leaf says to 
a this year's bud. 

Every flower about a house certifies to the refine- 
ment of somebody. 

The church has already reduced Spain to a guitar, 
Italy to a hand-organ, and Ireland to exile. 

Our ignorance is God ; what we know is science. 

A mortgage casts a shadow on the sunniest field. 

A first cause is just as impossible as a last effect. 



SELECTIONS. 255 

The combined wisdom and genius of mankind 
cannot conceive of an argument against the liberty 
of thought. 

I BELIEVE in the democracy of the family. If in 
this world there is anything splendid, it is a home 
where all are equals. 

One drop of water is as wonderful as all the seas ; 
one leaf as all the forests, and one grain of sand as 
all the stars. 

"Heretic" is an epithet used in the place of 
argument. 

Side by side across the open bible lie the sword 
and fagot. 

The spirit of worship is the spirit of tyranny. The 
intellect has no knees. 

The first doubt was the womb and cradle of 
progress. 

The people in all ages have crucified and glorified. 

The church has built more prisons than asylums. 

Whoever worships, abdicates. 



256 SELECTIONS. 

\V\i do not know, wc cannot say, whether death 
is a wall, or a door; the beginning or end, of a da)- ; 
the s[)reading of pinions to soar, or the folding forever 
of wings ; the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless 
life, that brings the rapture of lo\e to every one. 

Thi-: roof tree is sacred, from the smallest fibre 
that feels the soft cool clasp of earth, to the topmost 
hower that s])reads its bosom to the sun, and like a 
spendthrift gixes its ])erfume to the air. 

ThosI': who ha\e climbed highest on the shining- 
ladder of fame commenced at the lowest round. 

SuPEKsrrnoN is the upas tree, in whose shade 
the intellect of man has withered. 

^ HvI':rv creed is a rock in running water. Humanity 
sweeps by it. 

Till- churcli has furnisheil murderers for its own 
martyrs. 

Thii prodigality of the rich is tlie prox'idence of 
the poor. 

Thi-: l)est form of charity is extravagance. 

Mee.kness is the mask of malice. 



SELECTIONS. 257 

I>ETTER rot in tlic windowlcss tomb, to which there 
is no door but the red mouth of the palHd worm, 
than wear the jeweled collar even of a i^od. 

If we are the children of (iod, he furnished us 
with imperfect minds, and has no ri^ht U) demand a 
perfect result. 

It is a terrible thing to wake up at ni^ht, when 
you are sleeping alone, and be compelled to say, 
There's a rascal in this bed. 

The little ghosts fled at the first appearance of the 
dawn, and the great one will vanish with the perfect 
day. 

If honest convictions were contagious, more 
people would have them. 

Superstition is tlie mother of those hitleous 
twins, fear and faith. 

Under the loftiest monument sleeps the dust of 
murder. 

Intellectual discjbedience is one of the con- 
ditions of progress. 



258 SELECTIONS. 

Astronomy took its revenge, and not a glittering- 
star in all the vast expanse now bears a Christian 
name. 

The home where virtue dwells with love is like a 
lily with a heart of fire — the fairest flower in all the 
world. 

Religious persecution springs from a due ad- 
mixture of love toward God and hatred toward n"!an. 

Even intelligent self-lo\-e embraces within its 
mighty arms all the human race. 

The civilization of man increases as the secular 
power of the church decreases. 

XThe present is the necessary child of all the past. 
There has been no chance, there can be no interference. 

It is more important to love your wife, than to 
love God. 

Worship is a bribe that fear offers to power. 

Imposture has always worn a crown. 

Fear is the duncreon of the mind. 



SELECTIONS. 259 

In all ages, hypocrites, called priests, have put 
crowns upon the heads of thieves, called kings. 

Wiiv should the church show mercy to a noble 
heretic whom her (iod is impatient to burn in eternal 
fire ? 

Rej-ormation has always been regarded as 
treason. 

All facts are simply the different aspects of the 
one fact. 

To obey is slavish, but to act from a sense of 
obli'^ation perceived by the reason, is noble. 

Every church is a cemetery and every creed an 
epitaph. 

Superstition is the Gorgon beneath whose gaze 
the human heart has turned to stone. 

Wherever the bravest blood has been shed the 
sword of the church has been wet. 

Logic was not buried with the dead languages. 
Faith is a lullaby sung to put the soul to sleep. 



26o SELECTIONS. 

The idea that God wants blood is at the bottom 
of the atonement, and rests upon the most fearful 
savagery. The greater the crime, the greater the 
sacrifice ; the more blood the greater the atonement. 

If the people were a little more ignorant, as- 
trology would flourish ; if a little more enlightened, 
religion would perish. 

The orthodox church will never forgive the Uni- 
versalist for saying, " God is love." 

The science by which they demonstrate the im- 
possible, is theology. 

Theologians have exhausted ingenuity in finding 
excuses for God. 

Many of the intellectual giants of the world have 
been nursed at the sad and loving breast of poverty. 

There can be but little liberty on earth while men 
worship a tyrant in heaven. 

Astronomy was the first help that man received 
from heaven. 

All religions are inconsistent with mental freedom. 



SELECTIONS. 26 1 

Interest eats day and night, and the more it eats 
the hungrier it grows. The farmer in debt, lying 
awake at night, can, if he hstens, hear it gnaw. If he 
owes nothing, he can hear the corn grow. 

Is a God who will' burn a soul forever in another 
world, better than a Christian who burns a body for a 
few hours in this ? 

Few men have been patriotic enough to shoulder 
a musket in defence of a boarding-house. 

Ii' Christianity be true, there is but one little, 
narrow, grass- grown path that leads to heaven. 

To worship another is to degrade yourself Wor- 
ship is awe and dread, and vague fear and blind hope. 

Man in his helplessness has, by prayer and sacri- 
fice, endeavored to soften the heart of God. 

Every nerve in the human body has been sought 
out and touched, by the church. 

The sciences are not sirens luring souls to eternal 
wreck. 

A BLOW from a parent leaves a scar on the soul. 



262 SELECTIONS. 

Perhaps. — It may be that the fabric of our civili- 
zation will crumbling fall to unmeaning chaos and to 
formless dust, where oblivion broods and memory- 
forgets. Perhaps the blind Samson of some im- 
prisoned force, released by thoughtless chance, may 
so wreck and strand the world that man, in stress and 
strain of want and fear, will shudderingly crawl back 
to sa\-age and barbaric night. The time may come 
in which this thrilled and throbbing earth, shorn of 
all life, will in its soundless orbit wheel a barren star, 
on which the light wnll fall as fruitlessly as falls the 
gaze of love upon the cold, pathetic face of death. 

Right and Wrong. — \\'hat is right and what 
is wTong ? Everything is right that tends to the 
happfness of mankind, and everything is wrong that 
increases the sum of human misery. What can in- 
crease the happiness of this world more than to do 
away with every form of slavery, and w ith all war ? 
What can increase the misery of mankind more than 
to increase wars and put chains upon more human 
limbs ? \\niat is conscience ? If man were incapable 
of suffering, if man could not feel pain, the word 
" conscience " never w'ould have passed his lips. 



si<:lfxtions. 263 

Immortality. — The idea of immortality, that hke 
a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with 
its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the 
shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any 
book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. It was 
born of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and 
flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and dark- 
ness as long as love kisses the lips of death. It is 
the rainbow — Hope, shining upon the tears of grief. 

The Soldiers.— The soldiers of the Republic did 
not wage a war of extermination. They did not seek 
to enslave their fellow-men. They did not murder 
trembling age. They did not sheathe their swords 
in women's breasts. They gave the old men bread, 
and let the mothers rock their babes in peace. They 
fought to save the world's great hope — to free a race 
and put the humblest hut beneath the canopy of liberty 
and law. 

Intellectual CAPiTAL.-Logic is not satisfied 
with assertion. It cares nothing for the opinions of 
the " great,"— nothing for the prejudices of the many, 
and least of all for the superstitions of the dead. In 
the world of Science, a fact is a legal tender. Asser- 



264 SELECTIONS. 

tions and miracles arc base and spurious coins. We 
have the right to rejudge the justice even of a god. 
No one should throw away his reason — the fruit of 
all experience. It is the intellectual capital of the 
soul, the only light, the only guide, and without it the 
brain becomes the palace of an idiot king, attended by 
a retinue of thieves and hypocrites. 

Life. — We live on an atom called Earth, and 
what we know of the infinite is almost infinitely, 
limited ; but, little as we know, all have an equal right 
to give their honest thought. Life is a shadowy, 
strange, and winding road on which we travel for a 
little way — a few short steps — just from the cradle, 
with its lullaby of love, to the low and quiet way-side 
inn, where all at last must sleep, and where the only 
salutation is — Good night. 

Fear paralyzes the brain. Progress is born of 
courage. Fear believes — courage doubts. Fear 
falls upon the earth and prays — courage stands erect 
and thinks. Fear retreats — courage advances. Fear 
is barbarism — courage is civilization. Fear believes 
in witchcraft, in devils and in ghosts. Fear is religion 
— couraije is science. 



SKLECTIONS. 265 

Autumn. — The withered banners of the corn arc 
still, and gathered fields are growing strangely wan, 
while death, poetic death, with hands that color what 
they touch, weaves in the autumn wood its tapestries 
of brown and gold. 

Had the 109th Psalm been found in a temple 
erected for the worship of snakes, or in the possession 
of some cannibal king, written with blood upon the 
dried skins of butchered babes, there would have been 
a perfect harmony between its surroundings and its 
sentiments. 

A Being of infinite wisdom has no right to create 
a person destined to everlasting pain. For the honest 
infidel, according to orthodox Christianity, there is no 
heaven. For the upright atheist, there is nothing in 
another world but punishment. Christians admit that 
lunatics and idiots are in no danger of hell. This be- 
ing so, God should have created only lunatics and 
idiots. Why should the fatal gift of brain be given to 
any human being, if such gift renders him liable to 
eternal hell ? Better be a lunatic here and an angel 
there. Better be an idiot in this world, if you can be 
a seraph in the next. 



266 SliLECTIONS. 

If it is our duty to forgive our enemies, ought not 
God to forgive his? Is it possible that (iod will hate 
his enemies when he tells us that we must love ours ? 
The enemies of God cannot injure him, but ours can 
injure us. If it is the duty of the injured to forgive, 
why should the uninjured insist upon having re\'enge? 
Why should a being who destroys nations with pesti- 
lence and famine expect that his children will be loving 
and forgiving? 

LiKi' other religions, Christianity is a mixture of 
good and evil. The church has made more orphans 
than it has fed. It has never built asylums enough 
to hold the insane of its own making. It has shed 
more blood than light. 

Grc^wth is heresy. Heresy is the eternal dawn. 
It is the best thought. Heresy is the perpetually new 
world, the unknown sea, toward which the brave all 
sail. It is the eternal horizon of progress. Heresy 
extends, the hospitality of the brain to a new thought. 

The throne and altar are twins, vultures from the 
same eccf. 



SELECTIONS. 267 

At Hay. — Sometimes in the darkness of night I 
feel as though surrounded l)y the great armies of 
effacement — that the horizon is growing smaller 
every moment — that the final surrender is only post- 
poned — that e\erything is taking something from 
me — that Nature robs me with her countless hands 
— that my heart grows weaker with every beat — that 
even kisses wear me away, and that my every thought 
takes toll of my brief life. 

Givi- me the storm and tempest of thought and 
action, rather than the dead calm of ignorance and 
faith. Banish me from Eden when you will, but 
first let me eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. 

It seems to me that the doctrine of the atonement 
is absurd, unjust ami immoral. Can a law be satisfied 
by the execution of the wrong person ? When a man 
commits a crime, the law demands his punishment, 
not that of a substitute ; and there can be no law, 
human or dixine, that can be satisfied by the punish- 
ment of a substitute. Can there be a law that demands 
that the guilty be rewarded ? And yet, to reward the 
guilty is far nearer justice than to punish the innocent. 



268 SELECTIONS. 

GiiORCi-: Eliot. — George Eliot tenderly carried 
in her heart the burdens of our race. She looked 
through pity's tears upon the faults and frailties of 
mankind. She knew the springs and seeds of thought 
and deed, and saw, with cloudless eyes, through all 
the winding wavs of greed, ambition and deceit, where 
folly \-ainly plucks with thorn-pierced hands the fading 
flowers of selfish joy, the highway of eternal right. 
Whatever her relations may have been — no matter 
what I think, or others say, or how much all regret 
the one mistake in all her self-denying, loving life — 
I feel and know that in the court where her own 
conscience sat as judge, she stood accjuitted — pure as 
light and stainless as a star. 

Lea\-e her i' the earth : 
^ And from her fair aiul unpolhitfd flesh 

May violets spring ! 

It never can be necessary to throw away your 
reason to save your soul. 

In the presence of eternity the mountains are as 
transient as the clouds. 

Christianity transferred the brutalities of the 
Coliseum to the Incjuisition. 



SELl'Cl IONS. 269 

Ri'i.iGiON does not and cannot contemplate man 
as free. She accepts only the homas.^'^e of the prostrate, 
and scorns the offerings of those who stand erect. 
She cannot tolerate the liberty of thought. The wide 
anil sunnv fields belong not to her domain. The star- 
lit heights of genius and indixidualit)' are above and 
beyond her appreciation and j)()\\er. Her subjects 
cringe at her feet, covered with the dust of obedience. 
They are not athletes standing posed by rich Hfe and 
brave endeavor like anticjue statues, but shriveled de- 
formities studying with furtive glance the cruel face 
of power. 

I WANT no heaven for which I must give up my 
reason, no happiness in exchange for my liberty, and 
no inunortality that demands the surrender of my 
indixiduality. 

Hyi'OCRIS.y and tyranny — two vultures — have fed 
upon the hbcrties of man. 

To plow is to pray; to |)lant is to prophesy, and 
the harvest answers and fulfills. 

No man with any sense of humor, ever founded a 
reliuion. 



270 SELECTIONS. 

Arguments cannot be answered with insults. 
Kindness is strength. Anger blows out the lamp of 
the mind. In the examination of great questions every 
one should be serene, slow-pulsed and calm. Intelli- 
gence is not the foundation of arrogance. Insolence 
is not logic. Epithets are the arguments of malice. 
Candor is the courage of the soul. 

If you have but one dollar in the world, and have 
to spend it, spend it like a king ; spend it as though 
it were a dried leaf and you were the owner of un- 
bounded forests. 

God, in his infinite justice, damns a good man on 
his own merits, and saves a bad man on the merits 
of another. 

The church has been a charitable highwayman, a 
profligate beggar, a generous pirate. 

Is it possible that Christ is less forgiving in heaven 
than he was in Jerusalem ? 

Wives weary and worn, mothers wrinkled and 
bent fill homes with grief. 

The church is the stone of the sepulchre of liberty. 



SELECTIONS. 27 1 

Across the highway of progress, the church has 
always been building breast-works of bibles, tracts, 
commentaries, prayer-books, creeds, dogmas and 
platforms ; and at every advance, the Christians have 
gathered behind these heaps of rubbish and shot the 
poisoned arrows of malice at the soldiers of freedom. 

It is not necessary to understand Hebrew, in order 
to know that cruelty is not a virtue, that murder is in- 
consistent with infinite goodness, and that eternal 
punishment can be inflicted upon man only by an 
eternal fiend. 

Every member of a church, with a creed, like a 
club in his hand, stands guard over the brain of the 
minister. 

Industry is crippled, honest toil is robbed, and 
even beggary is taxed, to defray the expenses of 
Christian war. 

Why should a Christian believe in religious tolera- 
tion and yet worship a God who does not ? 

The school-house is my cathedral. 



272 SELECTIONS. 

Down, forever down, with any religion that re- 
quires upon its ignorant altar the sacrifice of the 
goddess Reason ; that compels her to abdicate the 
shining throne of the soul ; strips from her form the 
imperial purple ; snatches from her hand the sceptre 
of thought, and makes her the bond-woman of a 
senseless faith. 

Supi-RSTiTiON is a hydra-headed monster, reach- 
ing in terrible coils from the heavens, and thrusting 
its tliousand fangs into the bleeding, quivering hearts 
of men. 

\Vhate\er the attitude of the body, the brave 
soul is always found erect. 

OlNCE the cross and rack were inseparable com- 
panions. 

There are in nature neither rewards nor punish- 
ments ; there are consequences. 

Without liberty, the brain is a dungeon and the 
soul a convict. 

Every science has been an outcast. 



SF.LECTIONS. 273 

Thic originality of repetition, and the mental vigor 
of acquiescence, are all that we have a right to expect 
from the Christian world. 

In Love's fair realm husband and wife are king 
and cjueen, sceptred and crowned alike and seated on 
the self-same throne. 

LiiT the ghosts go ; let them cover their eyeless 
sockets with their fleshless hands and fade forever 
from the imagination of men. 

Will the agony of the damned increase or 
decrease the happiness of God ? 

The weakest man in the world can make as much 
out of " nothing," as God. 

BL.^sPHEMY marks the point where argument 
stops and slander begins. 

If I rob Mr. Smith, and God forgives me, how 
does that help Smith ? 

To prevent famine, one plow is worth a million 
prayers. 

In love and liberty, extravagance is economy. 



274 SELECTIONS. 

There is a quiet about the life of a farmer, and 
the hope oi' a serene old age, that no other business 
or profession can promise. \ professional man is 
doomed, sonic time, to hnd that his powers are want- 
ing. He is doomed to see younger and stronger men 
pass him in the race of life. He looks forward to an 
old age of intellectual mediocrity. He will be last, 
where once he was first. Ikit the farmer goes into 
partnership with Nature. He lives with trees and 
flowers. He l^-eathes the sweet air of the fields. 
There is no constant and frightful strain upon his 
mind. His nights are filled with sleep and rest. He 
watches his flocks and herds as the\' feed upon the 
green and sunny slopes. He hears the pleasant rain 
falling upon the waving corn, and the trees he |:)lanted 
in hfs \()ulh rustle above him as he plants others for 
the chiklren yet to be. 

Sui'FOSi': the Church could control the world to- 
dav ? We would go back to chaos and old night. 
Philosoph)- would l)e branded as infamous. Science 
would again press its pale and thoughtful face against 
the prison bars. Around the limbs of Liberty would 
climb antl lea]) the bigot's flame. 



SELI'CTIONS. 275 

All laws defining and punishing l)las[)heniy, 
making it a crime to give your honest ideas about the 
bible, to laugh at the ignorance of the ancient Jews, 
or express your real opinion (jf tlieir Jehovali, were 
passed by impudent bigots, and should be at once 
repealed by honest men. 

It seems to me that a belief in the great trutlis of 
science is fully as essential to salvaticjn as the creed 
of any church. 

Abject faith is barbarism. Reason is civiliza- 
tion. To obey is slavish. To act from a sense of 
obligation perceived by the reason, is noble. Igno- 
rance worships mystery ; Reason explains it. The 
one grovels ; the otlier soars. 

Tin-: first grave was the first cathedral. The first 
corpse was the first priest ; and when the last priest 
is one, the world will be free. 

No MAN worthy of the form he bears will, at the 
command of Church or State, solemnly repeat a creed 
his reason scorns. 



276 SMLMC riONS. 

The BiBLK Tiiii Work; 01- Man. — Is it not infi- 
nitely more reasonable to say that this book is the 
work of man — that it is lilled with mingled truth and 
error, with mistakes anil faets, and reflects, too faith- 
fully perhaps, "the very form and pressure of its 
time?" If there are mistakes in the bible, certainly 
they were made by man. If there is anything con- 
trary to nature, it was written by man. If there is 
anything immoral, cruel, heartless, or infamous, it 
certainly was not written by a being worthy of the 
adoration of mankind. 

I DO not see how it is possilile for a man to die 
worth millions of dollars in a city full of pain, where 
every day he sees the withered hand of want and the 
whitp lips of famine ! I do not see how he can do it, 
any more than he could keep a pile of lumber on the 
shore, where hundreds and thousands were drowning 
in the sea. 

In the long run, the nation that is honest, the 
people that are industrious, will pass the people that 
are dishonest, the people that are idle — no matter 
what grand ancestry they may have had. 



SELECTIONS. 277 

Give us One Fact. — Wc have heard talk enough. 
We have hstened t(j all the drowsy, idealess, vapid 
sermons tliat wc wish to hear. Wc have read your 
bible, and the works of ycjur best minds. We have 
heard your prayers, your solemn groans, and your 
reverential aniens. All these amount to less than 
nothing. We want one fact. We beg at the doors 
of your churches for just one little fact. We pass 
our hats along yrjur pews and under your pulpits and 
implore you for just one fact. We know all about 
your mouldy wonders and your stale miracles. We 
want a this-year's-fact. We ask only one. (iive 
us one fact, for charity. Your miracles are too 
ancient. 

Thi-: ei-:w have appealed to reason, to hcjnor, to 
law, to freedom, to the known, and to b.ajjjjiness here. 
The many have appealed to prejudice, to fear, to 
miracle, to slavery, to the unknown, and to misery 
hereafter. The few have said, Think ! The many 
have said, Believe ! 

"Co.ME let us reason together, saith the Lord." I 
accept the invitation. 



278 SELECTIONS. 

A Day for the Poor. — A poor mechanic, 
working all the week in dust and noise, needs a day 
of rest and joy — a day to visit stream and wood — a 
day to live with wife and child — a day in which to 
laugh at care and gather strength for toils to come. 
And his weary wife needs a breath of sunny air, 
away from street and wall, amid the hills, or by the 
margin of the sea, where she can sit and prattle with 
her babe and fill with happy dreams the long, glad 
day. 

Wfien every church becomes a school, every 
cathedral a university, every clergyman a teacher, 
and all the hearers brave and honest thinkers, the 
dream of poet, patriot, philanthropist and philosopher 
will oecome a great and splendid reality. 

It is better to be the emperor of one loving and 
tender heart — and she the empress of yours — than 
to be the emperor of the world. 

There is nothing grander than to rescue from the 
leprosy of slander the reputation of a great and 
splendid man. 



SELECTIONS. 279 

Civilization is the child of free thought. The 
New World has drifted away from the rotten wharf 
of superstition. The politics of this country are 
being settled by the new ideas of intellectual liberty. 
Parties and churches that cannot accept the new 
truths, must perish. 

OvK country will never be filled with great insti- 
tutions of learning until there is an absolute divorce 
between church and school. As long as the mutilated 
records of a barbarous people are placed by priest 
and professor above the reason of mankind, we shall 
reap but little benefit from church or school. 

I H.A.\Ti; HEi:\ in other countries and have said to 
myself, " After all, my country is the best." And 
when I came back to the sea and saw the old flag 
fiying, it seemed as though the air, from pure joy, 
had burst into blossom. 

I .\M in favor of the ta.xation of all church property. 
If that property belongs to God, he is able to pay the 
tax. If we exempt anything, let us exempt the homes 
of the widow and the orphan. 



28o SRLI'CTKIXS. 

Bi'i' tiiovf.n's Sixth Symi'Iionv. — This sound- 
\\rc)ughl i)icturc of the holds and uocjds, of flowering 
hedge ;uul happN' home, w lu-re thrushes build and 
swallows f1y; and mothers sing to hahes ; this eeho of 
the babbled lullaby of brooks that. dall\ing, wind and 
fall w here meadows bare their daisittl bosoms to the 
sun; this jo\-ous mimiery of summer rain, the laugh 
of ehildren, and the rhythmic rustle of the whispering 
lea\ es ; this strophe of peasant life ; this perfect poem 
of content and love. 

1'.\i:k\- religion has for its foundation a miracle — 
that is to sa)', a \-iolation of nature — that is to say, a 
falsehood. 

To work for others is, in rt-alit\', the only wav in 
which a m;m can work for himself Selfishness is 
ignorance. 

Ou r upon the intellectual sea there is room for 
every sail. In the intellectual air there is space 
for e\-er\- wing. 

Lo\i.; is the oidy thing that w ill pay ten per cent, 
to borrower and lender both. 



SltLIiCTIONS. 281 

(ioi.i) iiii[)ovcrislics. Only the other day I was 
where they wrench it from the miserly clutch of the 
rocks. When I saw the mountains treeless, shrubless, 
flowerless — without even a s])ire of ^niss — it seemed 
to me that i^oid has the same effect upon the soil that 
holds it, as upon the man who lives and labors only 
for it. It affects the land as it does the man. It 
leaves the heart barren, without a flower of kindness, 
without a blossom of jjity. 

SciiiNCii; makes friends, relii^ion makes enemies. 
The one enriches, the other impoverishes. The one 
thrives best where the truth is told, the other where 
falsehoods are believed. 

ivoMi: was far Ijetter when Pa,!..(an than when 
(Jathtjlic. It was better to allow (gladiators and crim- 
inals to fight, than to burn honest men. 

A hI':liI':vi-:k is a bird in a cai^^e. A freethinker 
is an castle partinc; the clouds with tireU'SS wing. 

A CKi-:i-:o is the ignorant past bullying the en- 
lightened present. 

II.M'i'ixi'iss is the legal-tender of the soul. 



282 SlilJ'CTIONS. 

A govI':knmI':n r fouiulctl upon anything;" except 
liberty can not and oui^ht not to staiul. All the 
wrecks on either shore of the stream of time — all the 
wrecks of cities and nations, are a warnini;- that no 
nation founded upon slavery can li\e. From sand- 
enshrouded Ro-ypt, from the marl)le wilderness of 
Athens, from exery fallen, cruiiiMinj;' stone of mighty 
Rome, conns a wail — a cry: " No nation founded on 
slax'cry, can stand." 

Orthodox ministers sit like owls on the ilead 
liiuhs of the tree of knowledge, and hoot the same old 
hoots that have been hooted for eighteen hundred 
years. 

IiVliR\' human being should take a road of his 
own. ' li\'er\- minil should be true to itself — should 
think, inxestigate, and conclude for itself. This is 
the diit\- a.like of paui)er and prince. 

Max stands with his back to the sunrise and 
mistakes his shatlow for (lod. 

Wr: go as far as we can, and the rest of the way 
we sav is — (".od. 



SKLF.CTIONS. 283 

I LIKI-: to hear chiUlrcn at the tal)le ti.Uini;- what 
big things they have seen during the day. I hke to 
hear their merry voices mingUng with the clatter of 
knives and forks. I had rather hear that, than any 
opera that was ever put upon the stage. 

Hvi'RY day scjiiiethi ng ha|)pens to show nie that 
the old spirit of the inquisition still slumbers in the 
Christian breast. 

I WANT to see the time when every man, woman, 
and child will enjoy every human right. 

ThI' Cinikcii is, and always has been, incapable 
of a forward movement. Religion always looks 
back. 

A LI]'- will not fit a fact ; it will only fit another lie 
made U)V the purpose. 

Ki:i:i> \-our word with your child the same as you 
would with \-our banker. 

Scii:\ci<: will put another "o" in C^otl, and take 
a "d" from Devil. 



LOVE. 




OVE is the only bow on life's dark cloud. 
It is the morning and the evening star. It 
shines upon the babe, and sheds its 
radiance on the cjuiet tomb. It is the 
mother of art, inspirer of poet, patriot and 
philosopher. It is the air and light of 
every heart — builder of every home, kindler of every 
fire on every hearth. It was the first to dream of 
immortality. It fills the world with melody — for 
music is the voice of love. Love is the magician, the 
enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and 
make^ right royal kings and queens of common clay. 
It is the perfume of that wondrous flower, the heart, 
and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon, 
we are less than beasts ; but with it, earth is heaven, 
and we are gods. 



ORIGIN AND DESTINY. 



C 




.|S a matter of fact, the questions of origin 
^/^ '. yirl'U'-u ^^'""^ destiny are beyond the grasp of the 
J/^5^:S?V human mind. We can see a certain 
^^ distance ; beyond that everything is in- 
distinct; and beyond the indistinct is 
the unseen. In the presence of these 
mysteries — and everything is a mystery so far as 
origin, destiny, and nature are concerned — the intclh- 
gent, honest man is compelled to say : " I do not 
know." 

In the great midnight a few truths, like stars, shine 
on forever — and from the brain of man come a (ew 
struggling gleams of light — a few momentary sparks. 
Some have contended that everything is spirit ; 
otliers, that everything is matter ; and again others, 
that a ])art is matter and apart is spirit; some, 
that spirit was first and matter after; others, that 
matter was first and spirit after, and others that 
matter and spirit have existed together. 



286 ORIGIN AND DESTINY. 

But none of these people can by any possibility 
tell what matter is, or what spirit is, or what the 
difference is between spirit and matter. 

The materialists look upon the spiritualists as sub- 
stantially insane ; and the spiritualists regard the 
materialists as low and groveling. These spiritual- 
istic people hold matter in contempt ; but, after all, 
matter is quite a mystery. You take in your hand a 
little earth — a little dust. Do you know what it is ? 
In this dust you put a seed ; the rain falls upon it ; 
the light strikes it ; the seed grows ; it bursts into 
blossom ; it produces fruit. 

What is this dust — this womb ? Do you under- 
stand it? Is there anything in the wide universe 
more wonderful than this ? 

Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take 
the smallest possible particle, look at it with a micro- 
scope, contemplate its every part for days, and it 
remains the citadel of a secret — an impregnable for- 
tress. Bring all the theologians, philosophers, and 
scientists in serried ranks against it ; let them attack 
on every side with all the arts and arms of thought 
and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the 
batUements floats the flag, and the victorious secret 
smiles at the baffled hosts. 




LIFE. 



"jORN of love and hope, of ecstacy and 
pain, of agony and fear, of tears and joy 
— dowered with the wealth of two united 
hearts — held in happy arms, with lips 
upon life's drifted font, blue-veined and 
fair, where perfect peace finds perfect 
form — rocked by willing feet and wooed to shadowy 
shores of sleep by siren mother singing soft and low 
— looking A\ith wonder's wide and startled eyes at 
common things of life and day — taught by want and 
wish and contact with the things that touch the 
dimpled flesh of babes — lured by light and flame, and 
charmed by color's A\'ondrous robes — learning the 
use of hands and feet, and by the love of mimicry 
beguiled to utter speech — releasing prisoned thoughts 
from crabbed and curious marks on soiled and tattered 
leaves — puzzling the brain with crooked numbers 



288 LII.-E. 

and their changing', tangled worth — and so through 
years of alternating day and night, until the captive 
grows familiar with the chains and walls and limita- 
tions of a life. 

And time runs on in sun and shade, until the one 
of all the world is wooed and won, antl all the lore of 
love is taught and learned again. Again a home is 
built with the fair chamber wherein faint dreams, like 
cool and shadowy wales, divide the billowed hours of 
love. Again the miracle of a birth — the pain and 
joy, the kiss of welcome and the cradle-song drown- 
ing the drowsy prattle of a babe. 

And then the sense of obligation and of A\Tong — 
pity for those who toil and weep — tears for the 
imprisoned and despised — love for the generous dead, 
and i^the heart the rapture of a high resolve. 

And then ambition, ^\•ith its lust of pelf and place 
and power, longing to put uj)on its breast distinc- 
tion's worthless badge. Then keener thoughts of 
men, and eyes that see behind the smiling mask of 
craft — flattered no more by the obsequious cringe of 
gain and greed — knowing the uselessness of hoarded 
gold — of honor bought from those who charge the 
usury of self-respect — of power that only bends a 



LIFE. 



coward's knees and forces from the lips of fear the 
hes of praise. Knowing at last the unstudied gesture 
of esteem, the reverent eyes made rich with honest 
thought, and liolding high above all other things — 
high as hope's great throbbing star al)()ve the dark- 
ness of the dead — the love of wife and child and 
friend. 

Then locks of gray, and growing lo\e of other 
days and half-remembered things — then holding 
withered hands of those who first held his, while over 
dim and loving eyes death softh' presses down the 
lids of rest. 

And so, locking in marriage vows his children's 
hands and crossing others on the breasts of peace, 
with daughters' babes upon his knees, the white 
hair mingHng with the gold, he journeys on from day 
to day to that horizon where the dusk is waiting for 
the night. — At last, sitting by the holy hearth of 
home as evenings' embers change from red to gray, 
he falls asleep within the arms of her he ^\•orshipped 
and adored, feeling upon his pallid lips lo\-e's last 
and holiest kiss. 



Till' IllRniPLACl-: OF lUJRNS. 



'l"h()iiti,li Scotland boasts a thousand nann 

Of patriot, kin_L; and peer, 
'I'hc nol)k-st, yrandcsl of tlu-ni all 

Was loved and cradled here : 
Here lived the o'entle peasant-prince, 

The lo\ int;- cotter-king-, 
compared with wlioni tiie gri-atesl lortl 

Is l.ut a tilled thing. 

"lis hut a cot roofed in with straw, 

A hovel made of cla\ ; 
One door shuts out the snow and storm. 

One winilow greets the d.iy : 
And yet 1 stand witliin this room 

And hold all thrones in scorn ; 

For here, iiene.ith this lowl)' thatch. 

Love's swei'test hard was horn. 
Z' 

Within this hallowed hut I f,<l 

i,ike ..ne who clasps a shrine. 
When the glad lips al l.isi have t.niched 

riu- something ,\vvmc,\ di\in.-. 
And here the world tiuough all the \ears 

As long as da\ returns. 
'["he tribute of its love .uid ti-ars 

Will p,i\ to Robert Hums. 



Ayr, August iq. iSjS 



TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECH ER. 




and on it 



^ENRY WARD BEECHER was born in 
a Puritan penitentiary, of which his father 
was one of the wardens — a prison with 
very narrow and chjsely-grated windows. 
Under its walls were the ray less, hopeless 
and measureless dungeons of the damned, 
^ roof fell the shadow c;f Clod's eternal frown. 
In this prison the creed and catechism were primers 
for children, and from a pure sense of duty their 
loving hearts were stained and scarred with the 
religion of John Calvin. 

In those days the- home of an orthodox minister 
was an inquisition in which babes were tortured 
for the good of their souls. Children then, as now, 
rebelled against the infamous absurdities and cruelties 
of the creed. No Calvinist was ever able, imle;:s 
with blows, to answer the ([uestions of his child. 
Children were raised in what was called " the nurture 



292 A TRIBUTE. 

and admonition of the Lord" — that is to say, their 
wills were hioken or subdued, their natures were de- 
fornud and tlwarfed, their desires defeated or destroy- 
ed, and their development arrested or perVerted. 
Life was rol>bed of its Sprint;', its Summer ami its 
Autumn. Children stej)pL(l h-om the cradle into the 
snow. No iaui^hter, no sunshine, no joyous, free, un- 
l)urtlcnetl days. God, an infinite detective, watched 
ihem from above, and Satan, with malicious leer, 
was waiting for their souls below. Between these 
monsters life was passed. Infinite conseciuences were 
predicatetl of the smallest action, and a burden greater 
than a (lod could l)ear was placed upon the heart and 
brain of c\ery child. To think, to ask questions, to 
doubtj to in\'estigate, were acts of rebellion. To 
express ])it\^ for the lost, writhing in the tlungeons 
below, was simjjly to gi\e e\iiUnce that the cnem)- 
of souls had been at work within their lu'arts. 

Among all the religit)ns of this world — from the 
creed of cannibals who de\-oured fiesh. to that of Cal- 
\'inists who pollutetl souls — there is none, there has 
been none, there will be n.one, more utterly heartless 
and inhuman than was the orthodo.x Congregational- 
ism of New England in the year of grace 1813. It 



A TRIHUTR. 293 

despised every natund joy, hated pictures, aljliorrcd 
statues as lewtl and lustful things, execrated niusie, 
regarded nature as fallen and corrupt, man as totally 
depraved and woman as somewhat worse. The 
theatre was the vestibule of perdition, actors tiie sei"- 
vants of Satan, and Shakespeare a trilling wretch, 
whose words were seeds of death. And )et the 
virtues found a welcome, cordial and sincere; duty 
was done as understood; obligations were discharged; 
trutli was told; self-denial was practised for tlie sake 
of otiiers, and many hearts were good and trut' in 
spitt' of book and creed. 

In tins atmosphere of theological miasma, in this 
hideous dream of superstition, in this penitentiary, 
moral and .uistere, this babe first saw the imi)risoned 
gloom. The natural desires ungratified, the laughter 
sujjpressed, the logic brow-beaten by authority, the 
humor froxen by fiar — of many generations — were 
in this child, a child destined to rend and wreck the 
prison's walls. 

Through the grated windows (jf his cell, this child, 
this boy, this man, caught glimpses of the outer world, 
of fields and skies. New thoughts were in his brain, 
new hopes within his heart. Another heaven bent 



294 A TRIBUTE. 

above his life. There eame a revelation of the 
beautiful and real. Theology grew mean and small. 
Nature wooed and won and saved this mighty soul. 

Her countless hands were sowing seeds within 
his tropic brain. All sights and sounds — all colors, 
forms and fragments — were stored within the treasury 
of his mind. His thoughts were moulded by the 
graceful cur\'es of streams, by winding paths in 
woods, the charm of (juiet country roads, and 
lanes grown indistinct A\ith weeds and grass — by 
vines that cling and hide with leaf and flower the 
crumbling wall's decay — by cattle standing in the 
summer pools like statues of content. 

There was within his words the subtle spirit of the 
season's change — of everything that is, of every- 
thing that lies between the slumbering seeds, that, 
half-awakened by the April rain, have dreams of 
heaven's blue, and feel the amorous kisses of the 
sun, and that strange tomb wherein the alchemist 
doth give to death's cold dust the throb and thrill of 
life again. He saw with loving eyes the willows of 
the meadow-streams grow red beneath the glance 
of Si)ring — the grass along the marsh's edge — the 
stir of life beneath the withered leaves — the moss 



A TRIIiUTE. 



295 



below the clri]) of snow — the flowers that give their 
bosoms to tile first south wind that wooes — the sad 
and timid violets that onh' bear the gaze of love from 
eyes half closed — the ferns, where fancy gives a 
thousand forms with but a single plan — the green 
and sunny slopes enriched with daisy's silver and 
the cowslip's gold. 

As in the leafless woods some tree, aflame with 
life, stands like a rapt poet in the heedless crowd, so 
stood this man among his fellow-men. 

All there is of leaf and bud, of flower and fruit, 
of painted insect life, and all the winged and happy 
children of the air that Summer holds beneath her 
dome of blue, were known and loved by liini. 
He loved the yellow Autumn fields, the golden 
stacks, the happy homes of men, the orchard's bending 
boughs, the sumach's flags of flame, the maples with 
transfigured leaves, the tender yellow of the beech, the 
wondrous harmonies of brown and gold — the vines 
where hang the clustered spheres of wit and mirth. 
He loved the winter days, the whirl and drift of 
snow — all forms of frost — the rage and furv of the 
storm, when in the forest, desolate and stri])ped, the 
brave old pine towers green and grand — a prophecy 



290 A TRIBUTK. 

of Sprini;-. He heard the rhythmic sounds of Nature's 
busy strife, the hum of bees, the songs of birds, the 
eagle's cry, the murmur of the streams, the sighs and 
lamentations of the winds, and all the voices of the 
sea. He loved the shores, the vales, the crags and 
cliffs, the city's busy streets, the introspective, silent 
plain, the solemn splendors of the night, the silver 
sea of dawn, and evening's clouds of molten gold. 
The love of Nature freed this loving man. 

One by one the fetters fell; the gratings disappear- 
ed, the sunshine smote the roof, and on the floors of 
stone, light streamed from open doors. He realized 
the darkness and despair, the cruelty and hate, the 
starless blackness of the old, malignant creed. The 
flower of pity grew and blossomed in his heart. 
The selflsh "consolation" filled his eyes with tears. 
He saw that what is called the Christian's hope is, that, 
among the countless billions wrecked and lost, a 
meagre few perhaj)s may reach the eternal shore — 
a hope that, like the desert rain, gives neither leaf nor 
l)ud — a hope that gix'es no joy, no peace, to any great 
and loving soul. It is the dust on which the serpent 
feeds that coils in heartless breasts. 

l)a\' by day the wrath and vengeance faded from 
the sky — the Jewish God grew, vague and dim — 



A TRIBUTE. 297 

the threats of torture and eternal pain grew vulgar 
and absurd, and all tlie miracles seemed strangely out 
of place. They clad the Infinite in motley garb, and 
gave to aureoled heads the cap and bells. 

Touched by the pathos of all human life, know- 
ing the shadows that fall on every heart — the thorns 
in every path, the sighs, the sorrows, and the tears 
that lie betw^een a mother's arms and death's embrace 
— this great and gifted man denounced, denied, and 
damned with all his heart the fanged and frightful 
dogma that souls were made to feed the eternal 
hunger — ra\-enous as famine — of a God's revenge. 

Take out this fearful, fiendish, heartless lie — 
compared A\ith which all other lies are true — and 
the great arch of orthodox religion crumbling falls. 

To tile a\ erage man the Christian hell and heaven 
are only words. He has no scope of thought. He 
lives but in a dim, im])overished n(jw. To him the 
past is dead — the future still unborn. He occupies 
with downcast eyes that narrow line of barren, shift- 
ing sand that lies between the flowing seas. Ikit 
(ienius knows all time. For him the dead all live 
and breathe, and act their countless parts again. All 
himian life is in his now, and every moment feels the 
thrill of all to be. 



290 A TRIBUTIi. 

No one can overestimate the good accomplished 
by this marvelous, many-sided man. He helped to 
slay the heart-devouring monster of the Christian 
world. He tried to civilize the church, to humanize 
the creeds, to soften pious breasts of stone, to take 
the fear from mothers' hearts, the chains of creed 
from every brain, to put the star of hope in every sky 
and over every grave. Attacked on every side, 
maligned by those who preached the law of love, he 
wavered not, but fought whole-hearted to the end. 

Obstruction is but virtue's foil. From thwarted 
light leaps color's flame. The stream impeded has a 
song. 

He passed from harsh and cruel creeds to that 
serene philosophy that has no place for pride or hate, 
that threatens no revenge, that looks on sin as stum- 
blings of the blind and pities those who fall, knowing 
that in the souls of all there is a sacred yearning for 
the light. He ceased 10 think of man as some- 
thing thrust upon the world — an exile from some 
other sphere. He felt at last that men are part of 
Nature's self — kindred of all life — the gradual growth 
of countless years ; that all the sacred books were 
helps until outgrown, and all religions, rough and 
devious paths that man has worn with weary feet in 



TRIBUTK. 



299 



sad and painful search for truth and peace. To liim 
these paths were wrong, and yet all gave the promise 
of success. He knew that all the streams, no matter 
how they wander, turn and cur\'e amid the hills 
or rocks, or linger in the lakes and pools, must some 
time reach the sea. These views enlarged his soul 
and made him patient with the world, and while the 
wintry snows of age were falling on his head, Spring, 
with all her wealth of bloom, \\-as in his heart. 

The memory of this ample man is now a part of 
Nature's wealth. He battled for the rights of men. 
His heart was with the slave. He stood against the 
selfish greed of millions banded to protect the pirate's 
trade. His voice w^as for the right when freedom's 
friends were few. He taught the church to think 
and doubt. He did not fear to stand alone. His 
brain took counsel of his heart. To every foe he 
offered reconciliation's hand. He loved this land 
of ours, and added to its glory through the world. 
He was the greatest orator that stood within the 
pulpit's narrow curve. He loved the liberty of speech. 
There was no trace of bigot in his blood. He was a 
brave and generous man. 

With reverent hands, I place this tribute on his 
tomb. 



MRS. IDA WHITING KNOVVLES. 




'Y FRIENDS : Again we stand in the 
til shadow of the great mystery — a shadow 
as deep and dark as when the tears of 
the first mother fell upon the pallid face 
of her lifeless babe — a mystery that has 
never yet been solved. 
We have met in the presence of the sacred dead, 
to speak a word of praise, of hope, of consolation. 

Another life of love is now a blessed memory — a 
lingering strain of music. 

The loving daughter, the ])ure and consecrated 
wife, the sincere friend, who with tender faithfulness 
discharged the duties of a life, has reached her 
journey's end. 

A braver, a more serene, a more chivalric spirit — 
clasping the loved and by them clasped — never passed 
from life to enrich the realm of death. No field of war 
e\-er witnessed greater fortitude, more perfect, smiling 



302 A TRIHUTE. 

courage, than this poor, weak and helpless woman 
displayed upon the bed of pain and death. 

Her life was gentle and her death sublime. She 
loxed the good and all the good loved her. 

There is this consolation: she can nc\-er suffer 
more; nc\-cr feci again the chill of death; never 
part again fi-om thdse she loves. II cr heart can 
break no mori'. She has shed her last tear, and 
ujjon her stainless brow has been set the wondrous 
seal of everlasting peace. 

When the Angel of Death — the masked and 
voiceless — enters the dt)or of home, tliere come with 
her all the daughters of Compassion, and of these 
L()\e and Hope remain forever. 

You are al)out to take this dear dust home — to 
the home of lur girlhood, and to the place that was 
once my home. You will la\' her with neighbors 
whom I have loved, and who are ncnv at rest. You 
will lay her where my father sleeps. 

" Lay hcri' the earth, 

And from her fair and unpolluted tlesh 

May violets s]M-inj:i-." 

I never knew, I never me't, a bra\'er spirit than 
the one that once inhabited this silent form of dream- 
less clay. 



ART AND MORAIJTY. 




RT is the highest form of expression, 
and exists for the sake: of expression. 
Through art thoughts become visible. 
Hack of fjrnis ai"c the desire, the 
h)nging, thi: brooding creative instinct, 
the maternity of mind and the passion 
that gi\'e pose and swell, outline and color 

Of course there is no such thing as absolute 
beauty or absolute morality. We now clearlv per- 
ceix'e that beaut\' and conduct are relatixe. \\\; have 
outgrown the provincialism that thought is back of 
substance, as well as the old Platonic absurdit\-, that 
ideas existed before the subjects of thought. So far, 
at least, as man is concerned, his thoughts have been 
produced by his surroundings, by the action and inter- 
action of things upon his mind ; and so far as man 
is concerned, things have jjreceded thoughts. The 



304 ART AND MORALITY. 

impressions that these things make upon us are what 
we know of them. The absolute is beyond the 
human mind. Our knowledge is eonfined to the 
relations that exist between the totality of things that 
we call the uni\'erse, antl the eftect upon ourselves. 

Actions are deemed right or wrong, according to 
experience and the conclusions of reason. Things 
are beautiful by the relation that certain forms, colors, 
and modes of expression bear to us. At the founda- 
tion of the beautiful will be found the fact of happiness, 
the gratification of the senses, the delight of intellec- 
tual discox'cry and the surprise and thrill of apprecia- 
tion. That which we call the beautiful, wakens into 
life through llie association of ideas, of memories, of 
experiences, of suggestions of pleasure past and the 
perception that the prophesies of the ideal have 
been and will be fulfilled. 

Art cultivates and kindles the imagination, and 
c|uickens the conscience. It is by imagination that 
we put ourselves in the place of another. When the 
wings of that faculty are folded, the master does not 
put himself in the place of the slave; the tyrant is not 
locked in the dungeon, chained with his victim. The 
inquisitor did not feel the fiames that devoured the 



ART AND MORALITY. 305 

martyr. The imai^inative man, giving to the beggar, 
gives to himself. Those who feel indignant at the 
perpetration of \\-rong, feel for the instant that they 
are the victims; and when they attack the aggressor 
they feel that they are defending themselves. Love 
and pity are the children of the imagination. 

Our fathers read with great approbation the me- 
chanical sermcMis in rhyme written by Milton, Young 
and Pollok. Those theological poets wTOte f(jr the 
purpose of convincing their readers that the mind of 
man is diseased, filled with infirmities, and that poetic 
poultices and plasters tend to purify and strengthen 
the moral nature of the human race. Nothing to the 
true artist, to the real genius, is so contemptible as 
the "medicinal \iew." 

Poems \\'ere written to prove that the jjractice of 
virtue was an investment for another world, and that 
whoev^er followed the advice found in those solemn, 
insincere and lugubricnis rhymes, although he might 
be exceedingly unhappy in this world, would with 
great certainty be rewarded in the next. These 
writers assumed that there was a kind of relation 
between rhyme and religion, between verse and 
virtue ; and that it was their duty to call the attention 



3o6 ART AND MORALITY. 

of the world to all the snares and pitfalls of pleasure. 
They wrote with a purpose. They had a distinct 
moral end in \iew. They had a plan. They were 
missionaries, and their object was to show the world 
how wicked it \\as and how good they, the writers, 
were. They could not conceive of a man being so 
happy that everything in nature partook of his feeling; 
that all the birds were singing for him, and singing 
by reason of his joy ; that everything sparkled and 
shone and mo\ed in the glad rhythm of his heart. 
The)- could nt)t appreciate this feeling. They could 
not think of this joy guiding the artist's hand, seeking 
expression in form and color. They tlid not look 
upon poems, ))ictures, and statues as results, as 
children of the brain fathered by sea and sky, by 
flower and star, by love: and light. They were not 
moved 1)\- gladness. They felt the responsibility of 
perpetual duty. They had a desire to teach, to ser- 
monizi-, to point out and exaggerate the faults of 
others and to describe the virtues practiced by them- 
selves. Art became a colporteur, a distributer of 
tracts, a mendicant missionary whose highest ambi- 
tion was to suppress all heathen joy. 

Happy people were supposed to have forgotten. 



ART AND MORALITY. 307 

in ;i reckless moment, dut)' and rcsponsihility. True 
poetry would call them back to a realization of their 
meanness and their misery. It was the skeleton at 
the feast, the rattle of whose bones had a rhythmic 
sound. It was the forefini^er of warnin;^" and doom 
held uj) in the |)resence of a smile. 

These moral poets taui;ht the "unwelcome truths," 
and by the |)aths of life put posts on which they 
painted hands ])ointing at graves. They loved to see 
the pallor on the cheek of youth, while they talked, 
in solemn tones, of age, decrepitude and lifeless clay. 

Before the eyes of love they thrust, with eager 
hands, the skull of death. They crushed the flowers 
beneath their feet and plaited crowns of thorns for 
every brow. 

According to these poets, happiness was incon- 
sistent with virtue. The sense of infinite obligation 
should be perpetually present. They assumed an 
attitude of superiority. They denounced and calum- 
niated the reader. They enjoyed his confusion when 
charged with total depravity. They loved to paint 
the sufferings of the lost, the Avorthlessness of human 
life, the littleness of mankind, and the beautii's of an 
unknown world. They knew but little of the heart. 



308 ART AND IMORALIT'S'. 

They did not know that without passion there is no 
virtue, and that the really passionate are the virtuous. 

Art has nothing to do directly with morality or 
immorality. It is its own excuse for being ; it exists 
for itself. 

The artist who endeavors to enforce a lesson, 
becomes a preacher ; and the artist who tries by hint 
and suggestion to enforce the immoral, becomes a 
pander. 

There is an infinite difference between the nude 
and the naked, between the natural and the undressed. 
In the presence of the pure, unconscious nude, nothing 
can be more contemptible than those forms in which 
are the hints and suggestions of drapery, the pre- 
tence of exposure, and the failure to conceal. The 
undressed is vulgar — the nude is pure. 

The old Greek statues, frankly, proudly nude, 
whose free and perfect limbs have never known the 
sacrilege of clothes, were and are as free from taint, 
as pure, as stainless, as the image of the morning- 
star trembling in a drop of perfumed dew. 

Morality is the harmony between act and circum- 
stance. It is the melody of conduct. A wonderful 
statue is the melody of proportion. A great picture 



ART AND MORALITY. 309 

is the melody of form and color. A threat statue does 
not suggest labor ; it seems to have been created as 
a joy. A great painting suggests no weariness and 
no effort ; the greater, the easier it seems. So a great 
and splendid life seems to have been without effort. 
There is in it no idea of oljjigation, no idea of respon- 
siljility or of duty. Tlie idea of dut)' changes to a 
kind of drudgery that which should be, in the perfect 
man, a perfect pleasure. 

The artist, working simply for the sake of enforc- 
ing a moral, becomes a laborer. The freedom of 
genius is lost, and the artist is absorbed in the citizen. 
The soul of the real artist should l)e moved by this 
melody of proportion as the body is unconsciouslv 
swayed by the rhythm of a symphony. No one can 
imagine that the great men who chiseled the statues 
of antiquity intended to teach the youth of Greece to 
be obedient to their parents. We cannot believe that 
Michael Angelo painted his grotesque and somewhat 
vulgar " I)av of Judgment" for the purpose of reform- 
ing Italian thieves. The subject ^\■as in all probability 
selected Ijy his employer, and the treatment was a 
question of art, without the slightest reference to the 
moral effect, even upon priests. We are perfectly 



3IO ART AND MORALITY. 

certain that Corot painted those infinitely poetic land- 
scapes, those cottages, those sad poplars, those leafless 
vines on weather-tinted walls, those quiet pools, those 
contented cattle, those fields flecked with light, over 
Avhich bend the skies, tender as the breast of a mother, 
Avithout once thinking of the ten commandments. 
There is the same difference between moral art and 
the product of true genius, that there is between 
prudery and Airtue. 

The novelists who endeavor to enforce what they 
are pleased to call "moral truths," cease to be artists. 
They create two kinds of characters — types and 
caricatures. The first never has li\-ed, and the second 
never will. The real artist produces neither. In his 
pages you will find individuals, natural people, who 
have^he contradictions and inconsistencies insepar- 
able from humanity. The great artists " hold the 
mirror up to nature," and this mirror reflects with ab- 
solute accuracy. The moral and the immoral writers 
— that is to say, those who have some object besides 
that of art — use convex or concave mirrors, or those 
with uneven surfaces, and the result is that the images 
are monstrous and deformed. The little novelist and 
the little artist deal either in the impossible or the 



ART AND MORALITY. 31I 

exceptional. The men of genius touch the unixersal. 
Their words and worlds throb in unison with the 
great eiob and flow of things. They write and work 
for all races and for all time. 

It has been the object of thousands of reformers 
to destroy the passions, to do awav with desires ; and 
could this object be accomplished, life would become 
a burden, with but one desire — that is to sa\', the de- 
sire for extinction. Art in its highest forms increases 
passion, gi\-es tone and color and zest to life. But 
while it increases passion, it reiines. It extends the 
horizon. The bare necessities of life constitute a 
prison, a dungeon. Under the influence of art the 
walls expand, the roof rises, and it loecomes a temple. 

Art is not a sermon, and the artist is not a 
preacher. Art accomplishes by indirection. The 
beautiful refines. The perfect in art suggests the 
perfect in conduct. The harmony in music teaches, 
without intention, the lesson of proportion in life. 
The bird in his song has no moral purpose, and yet 
the influence is humanizing. The beautiful in nature 
acts through appreciation and sympathy. It does 
not browbeat, neither does it humiliate. It is beauti- 
ful without regard to you. Roses would be unbear- 



312 ART AND MORALITY. 

able if in their red and perfumed hearts were mottoes 
to the effect that bears eat bad boys and that honesty- 
is the best poHcy. 

Art creates an atmosphere in which the proprie- 
ties, the amenities, and the virtues unconsciously 
grow. The rain does not lecture the seed. The 
light does not make rules for the vine and flower. 

The heart is softened by the pathos of the perfect. 

The world is a dictionary of the mind, and in this 
dictionary of things genius discovers analogies, resem- 
blances, and parallels amid opposites, likeness in 
difterence, and corroboration in contradiction. Lan- 
guage is but a multitude of pictures. Nearly every 
word is a work of art, a picture represented by a 
sound, and this sound represented by a mark, and 
this iiiark gi\'es not only the sound, but the picture of 
something in the outward world and the picture of 
something within the mind, and with these words 
which were once pictures, other pictures are made. 

The greatest pictures and the greatest statues, the 
most wonderful and marvelous groups, have been 
painted and chiseled with words. They are as fresh 
to-day as when they fell from human lips. Penelope 
still ravels, weaves, and waits ; Ulysses' bow is bent, 



ART AND MORALITY. 3 13 

and through the level rings the eager arrow flies. 
Cordelia's tears are falling now. The greatest gallery 
of the world is found in Shakespeare's book. The 
pictures and the marbles of the Vatican and Louvre 
are faded, crumbling things, compared with his, in 
which perfect color gives to perfect form the glow 
and movement of passion's highest Hie. 

Everything e.xcept the truth wears, and needs to 
wear, a mask. Little souls are ashamed of nature. 
Prudery pretends to ha\'e only those passions that 
it cannot feel.' Moral poetry is like a respectable 
canal that never overflows its banks. It has wen's 
through which slowly and without damage any 
excess of feeling is allowed to flow. It makes excuses 
for nature, and regards lo\-e as an interesting con\-ict. 
Moral art paints or chisels feet, faces, and rags. It 
regards the l)ody as obscene. It hides with drapery 
that which it has not the genius purely to portray. 
Mediocrity becomes moral from a necessity which it 
has the impudence to call virtue. It pretends to re- 
gard ignorance as the foundation of purity and insists 
that virtue seeks the companionship of the blind. 

Art creates, combines, and reveals. It is the 
highest manifestation of thought, of passion, of love, 



314 ART AND MORALITY. 

of intuition. It is the highest form of expression, of 
history and prophesy. It allows us to look at an 
unmasked soul, to fathom the abysses of passion, to 
understand the heights and depths of love. 

Compared with what is in the mind of man, the 
outward world almost ceases to excite our wonder. 
The impression produced b\' mountains, seas, and 
stars is not so great, so thrilling, as the music of 
Wagner. The constellations themselves grow small 
when we read " Troilus and Cressida," " Hamlet," or 
"Lear." What are seas and stars in the presence of 
a heroism that holds pain and death as naught? 
What are seas and stars compared with human 
hearts ? What is the quarr\' compared with the 
statue ? 

Aft civilizes because it enlightens, develops, 
strengthens, ennobles. It deals with the beautiful, 
with the passionate, with the ideal. It is the child of 
the heart. To be great, it must deal with the human. 
It must be in accordance with the experience, with the 
hopes, with the fears, and with the possibilities of 
man. No one cares to paint a palace, because there 
is nothing in such a picture to touch the heart. It 
tells of responsibility, of the prison, of the conventional. 



ART AND MORALITY. 315 

It suggests a load — il k-Ils of apprehension, of weari- 
ness and ennui, 'llic ])icUux: of a cottage, over which 
runs a \ ine, a little liouic ihalclutl witli content, with 
its simple life, its natural sunshine and shadow, its 
trees bending with fruil, its hollyhocks and pinks, its 
happy children, its hum of bees, is a jjfjem — a snn'le 
in the desert of this world. 

'I'he great lady, in \el\-et and jewels, makes but 
a poor picture. There is not freedom enough in her 
life. She is constrained. She is too far away from 
tin: simplicit)' of happiness. In her thought thc'i-e is 
t(jo much of the mathematical. In all ai't you will 
find a touch of chaos, of libert\' ; and there is in all 
artists a little of the vagabond — that is to say, 
genius. 

The nude in art has rendered holy the beaut)- of 
woman. K\cry (ireek statue pleads for mothers and 
sisters, b'rom these marbles come strains of music. 
They ha\'e filled the heaiT of man with tenderness 
and worship. The\' have kindUd reverence, admir.i- 
tion and love. Tin- Venus de .Milo, that even mutila- 
tion cannot mar, tends only to the elexation of our 
race. It is a miracle (jf majesty and beauty, the 
supreme idea of the supreme woman. It is a melody 



3l6 ART AND MORALITY. 

in marble. All the lines meet in a kind of voluptuous 
and glad content. The pose is rest itself. The eyes 
are filled with thoughts of love. The breast seems 
dreaming of a child. 

The prudent is not the poetic ; it is the matliemat- 
ical. Genius is the spirit of abandon ; it is joyous, 
irresponsible. It moves in the swell and curve of 
billows ; it is careless of conduct and consequence. 
For a moment, the chain of cause and effect seems 
broken ; the soul is free. It gives an account not e\en 
to itself Limitations are forgotten ; nature seems 
obedient to the will ; the, ideal alone exists ; the uni- 
verse is a symphonv. 

Every brain is a gallery of art, and exerv soul is, 
to a greater or less degree, an artist. The pictures 
andstatues that now enrich and adorn the walls and 
niches of the world, as well as those that illuminate 
the pages of its literature, were taken originally from 
the private galleries of the brain. 

The soul — that is to say the artist — compares the 
pictures in its own brain with the pictures that have 
been taken from the galleries of others and made 
visible. This soul, this artist, selects that which is 
nearest perfection in each, takes such parts as it deems 



ART AND MORALITY. ' 317 

perfect, puts them toy,-ether, forms new pictures, new 
statues, and in this way creates the ideal. 

To express desires, longings, ecstacies, prophecies 
and passions in form and color; to put love, hope, 
heroism and triumph in marble ; to paint dreams and 
memories with words ; to portray the purity of dawn, 
the intensity and gior\' of noon, the tenderness of 
twilight, the splendor and mystery of night, with 
sounds ; to give the invisible to sight and touch, and 
to enrich the common things of earth with'^ gems and 
jewels of the mind — this is Art. 



TRIBUTE TO ROSCOE CONKLING 



Pi-livcred he/ore the Xeiu York State Legislature, at Albany, N. Y., May g. 




*^(1SC0E CONKLING — a great man, an 
orator, a statesman, a lawyer, a dis- 
tinguished citizen of the RepubHc, in 
the zenith of his fame and power has 
reached his journey's end ; and we are 
met, here in the city of his birth, to pay 
our tribute to his worth and work. He earned and 
held a proud position in the public thought. He 
stood for independence, for courage, and abo\'e all 
for absolute integrity, and his name was known and 
honored by man\' millions of his fellow men. 

The literature of many lands is rich with the 
tributes that gratitude, admiration and \o\c have 
paid to the great and honored dead. These tributes 
disclose the character of nations, the ideals of the 
human race. In them we find the estimates of 



320 A TRIBUTE. 

greatness — the deeds and lives that challenged 
praise and thrilled the hearts of men 

In the presence of death, the good man judges 
as he \\ould be judged. He knows that men are 
only fragments — that the greatest walk in shadow, 
and that faults and failures mingle with the lives 
of all. 

In the grave should be buried the prejudices 
and passions born of conflict. Charity should hold 
the scales in which are weighed the deeds of men. 
Peculiarities, traits born of locality and surround- 
ings — these are but the dust of the race — these 
are accidents, drapery, clothes, fashions, that have 
nothing t(^ do with the man except t(^ hide his 
character. They are the clouds that cling to moun- 
tains. Time gives us clearer \ision. That which 
was merely local fades away. The words of envy 
are forgotten, and all there is of sterling worth 
remains. He who was called a partisan is a patriot. 
The revolutionist and the outlaw are the founders of 
nations, and he who was regarded as a scheming, 
selfish politician becomes a statesman, a philosopher, 
whose words and deeds shed light. 



A TRIBUTE 



321 



Fortunate is that nation ^rcat cnoug-h to know 
the great. When a great man dies — one who has 
nobly fought the l)attle of a hfe, who has Ijeen 
faithful t(j ever)' trust, and has uttered his highest, 
noblest thought — one who has stood proudly b)' 
the right in spite of jeer and taunt, neither stop]Kd 
by foe nor swxTved by friend — in honoring him, 
in speaking words of praise and love aboxe his dust, 
w^e pay a tribute to ourselves. 

How poor this w^orld would Ije without its graves, 
without the memories of its mighty dead. Only the 
voiceless speak forever. 

Intelligence, integrity and courage are the great 
pillars that support the State. 

Abo\e all, the citizens of a free nation should 
honor the brave and independent man — the man 
of stainless integrity, of will and intellectual force. 
Such men are the Atlases on whose mighty shoulders 
rest the great fabric of the republic. Flatterers, 
cringers, crawlers, time-servers are the dangerous 
citizens of a democracy. They who gain applause 
and power by pandering to the mistakes, the preju- 
dices and passions of the multitude, are the enemies 
of liberty. 



322 A TRIBUTE. 

When the intclhgent submit to the clamor of the 
many, anarchy begins and the repubhc reaches the 
edge of chaos. Mediocrity, touched with ambition 
flatters the base and calumniates the great, while the 
true patriot, who will do neither, is often sacrificed. 

In a government of the people a leader should be 
a teacher — he should carry the torch of truth. 

Most people are the sla\x's of habit — followers of 
custom — believers in the wisdom of the past — and 
were it not for brave and splendid souls, " the dust of 
antique time would lie unswept, and mountainous 
error be too highly heaped for truth to overpeer." 
Custom is a prison, locked and barred by those who 
long ago were dust, the keys of which are in the 
keeping of the dead. 

Nothing is grander than when a strong, intrepid 
man breaks chains, levels walls and breasts the many- 
headed mob like some great cliff tliat meets and 
mocks the innumerable billows of the sea. 

The politician hastens to agree with the majority — 
insists that their prejudice is patriotism, that their 
ignorance is wisdom; — not that he loves them, but 
because he loves himself The statesman, the real 



A TRIHUTH. 323 

reformer, points out the mistakes of the multitude, 
attaclcs the prcjudiees of his countrymen, laughs at 
their follies, denounces their cruelties, enlightens and 
enlarges their minds and educates the conscience — 
not because he loves himself, but because he loves 
and ser\-es the right and wishes to make his country 
great and free. 

With him deieat is but a spur to further effort. 
He who refuses to stoop, \\ho cannot be briljcd by 
the promise of success, or the fear of failure — who 
walks the highway of the right, and in disaster stands 
erect, is the only \ictor. Nothing is more despicable 
than to reach fame b\- crawling, — position by cring-. 
ing. 

When real history shall Ijc written by the truthful 
and the wise, these men, these kneelers at the shrines 
of chance and fraud, these brazen idols worshipped 
once as gods, \v\\\ lie the \-ery food of scorn, while 
those who bore the burden of defeat, who earned and 
kept their self-respect, wh(j would not bow to man or 
men for place or power, will wear upon their brows 
the laurel mingled with the oak. 

Roscoi': CoNKLiNc; A\as a man of superb courage. 



324 A TKIHUTK. 

lie not only acted without fear, but he had that 
fortitude of soul that bears the consequences of the 
course jjursued without ctjmplaint. He was charged 
with being proud. The charge was true — he was 
proud. His knees were as inflexible as the " un- 
wedgeable and gnarled oak," but he was not \:un. 
Vanity rests on the ojiinion of others — pride, on our 
own. The source of \anity is from without — of 
pride, from within. X'anity is a vane that turns, a 
willow that bends, \\ith c:\^ery breeze — pride is the 
'oak that defies the storm. One is cloud — the other 
rock. One is weakness — the other strength. 

This imperious man entered public life in the 
dawn of the reft>rmation — at a time when the country 
needed men of pride, of principle and courage. The 
institution o{ slaxerv had poisoned all the springs of 
power. Bef(M-e this crime ambition fell upon its 
knees, — politicians, judges., clergymen, and merchant- 
princes bowed low and humbly, with their hats in 
their hands. The real friend of man was denounced 
as tlie enemv of his country — the real enemy of the 
human race was called a statesman and a patriot. 
Slavery was the bond and pledge of peace, of union. 



A TRIIUJTi:. 325 

antl national greatness. The teni])le of iVnieriean 
liberty was finished — the auetion-bloek was the 
cornei--stonc. 

It is hard to eonccive of the utter demoralization, 
of the political blindness and immorality, of the 
])atriotic dishonesty, of the cruelty and degradation 
of a people who supjjlemented the incomparable 
Declaration of Independence with the rugitive 
Slave Law. 

'I'iiiiik of the honored statesmen of that ignoble 
time \\lu) wallowed in this mire and who, decorated 
with dripping filth, received the plaudits of their 
fellow-men. The noble, the really patriotic, were 
the victims of mobs, and the shameless were clad 
in the robes o( office. 

P.ut let us speak no wcjrtl of blame — let us feel 
that each one acted according to his light — according 
to liis darkness. 

.At last the conflict came. The hosts of light antl 
darkness prepared to meet upon the fields of war. 
The question was presented : Shall the Repul)lic be 
slave or free? The Republican party had triumphed 
at the polls. The greatest man in our history was 



326 A TRIBUTE. 

President elect. The victors were appalled — they 
shrank from the great responsibility of success. In 
the presence of rebellion they hesitated — they offered 
to return the fruits of \ictory. Hoping to avert war 
they were willing that slavery should become im- 
mortal. An amendment to the Constitution was 
proi)osed, to the effect that ncj sul)sequent amendment 
should e\er be made that in any wa\' should interfere 
w ith the right of man to steal his fellow-men. 

This, the most marvellous proposition ever sub- 
mitted to a Congress of civilized men, received in the 
House an overwhelming majority, and the necessary 
two-thirds in the Senate. The Republican party, in 
the moment o( its triumjjh, deserted every principle 
for which it had so gallantly contended, ahd with the 
trenlbling hands of fear laid its convictions on the 
altar of compromise. 

The Old Guartl, numbering but sixty-five in the 
House, stood as firm as the three hundred at 
Thermopylae. Thaddeus Stevens — as maliciously 
right as any other man was ever wrong — refused 
to kneel. Owen Lovejoy, remembering his brother's 
noljle blood, refused to surrender, and on the edge of 



A TRIBUTE. 327 

disunion, in the shadow of civil war, \\'ith the air 
filled with sounds of dreadful preparation, while the 
Republican ])arty was retracing its steps, Roscoii 
CoNKi.iNG voted No. This puts a wreath of glory 
on his tomb. From that \()te to the last moment 
ot his life he was a chanijiion of equal rights, staunch 
and stalwart. 

Prom that moment he stood in the front rank. 
He ne\'er wavered and he ne^'er swerved. By his 
devotion to principle — his courage, the splendor of 
his diction, — by his \aried and profound knowledge, 
his conscientious devotion to the great cause, and by 
his intellectual scope and grasp, he won and held 
the admiration of his fellow-men. 

Disasters in the field, re\'erses at the polls, did 
not and could not shake his courage or his faith. 
He knew the ghastly meaning of defeat. He knew 
that the great ship that slavery sought to strand and 
wreck \\'as freighted \\ith the world's sublimest 
hope. 

He battled for a nation's life — for the rights of 
slaves — the dignity of laljor, and the liberty of all. 
He guarded with a father's care the rights of the 



328 A TRIBUTE. 

hunted, the hated and despised. He attacked the 
savage statutes of the reconstructed States with a 
torrent of invective, scorn and execration. He \\as not 
satisiied until the freedman was an American Citizen — 
clothed with every civil right — until the Constitution 
was his shield — until the ballot was his sword. 

And long after we are dead, the colored man in 
this and other lands will speak his name in reverence 
and love. Others wavered, but he stood firm ; some 
were false, but he was proudly true — fearlessly faith- 
ful unto death. 

He gladly, proudly grasped the hands of colored 
men who stood with him as makers of our laws, and 
treated them as equals and as friends. The cry of 
" social equality " coined and uttered by the cruel and 
the base, was to him the expression of a great and 
splendid truth. He knew that no man can be the 
equal of the one he robs — that the intelligent and 
unjust are not the superiors of the ignorant and 
honest — and he also felt, and proudly felt, that if 
he were not too great to reach the hand of help and 
recognition to the slave, no other senator could right- 
fully refuse 



A TRinUTH. 329 

We rise by raising others — and he who stoops 
above the fallen, stands erect. 

Nothing can be grander than to sow the seeds of 
noble thoughts and virtuous deeds — to liberate the 
bodies and the souls of men — to earn the grateful 
homage of a race — and then, in life's last shadowy 
hour, to know that the historian of Liberty will be 
compelled to write your name. 

There are no words intense enough, — with heart 
enough — to express my admiration for the great and 
gallant souls who have in every age and every land 
upheld the right, and who have lived and died for 
freedom's sake. 

In our lives have been the grandest years that 
man has lived, that Time has measured by the flight 
of worlds. 

The history of that great Party that let the 
oppressed go free — that lifted our nation from the 
depths of savagery to freedom's cloudless heights, 
and tore with holy hands from every law the words 
that sanctified the cruelty of man, is the most glorious 
in the annals of our race. Never before was there 
such a moral exaltation — never a party with a pur- 



330 A TRIBl'TK. 

pose SO pure and high. It was the embodied con- 
scienee of a nation, the enthusiasm of a people guided 
l:)y wisdom, the impersonation of justice; and the 
suljHme victory achieved loaded even the conquered 
with all the rights that freedom can bestow. 

Roscoi': CoNKLiNCr was an absolutely honest man. 

Honesty is the oak around which all other \irtues 
cling. Without that the\' fall, and gro\'eling die in 
weeds and dust. He belie\ed that a nation should 
discharge its obligations. He knew that a promise 
could not be made often enough, or emphatic 
enough, to take the jjlace of payment. He felt that 
the promise of the go\'ernment \\as the promise of 
every citizen — that a national obligation was a 
personal debt, and that no possible combination of 
words and pictures could take the place of coin. 
He uttered the splendid truth that "the higher 
obligations among men are not set down in writing 
signed and sealed, but reside in honor." He knew 
that repudiation was the sacrifice of honor — the death 
of the national soul. He knew that without charac- 
ter, without integrity, there is no wealth, and that 
below poverty, below bankruptcy, is the rayless abyss 



A TRUiUTE. 331 

of rci)LKliation. lie uidicld the sacrcdncss of con- 
tracts, of plighted national faith, and helped to save' 
and keep the honor of his native land. This adds 
another laurel to his br(n\-. 

He was the ideal representative, faithful and 
incorruptible. He believed that his constituents and 
his country were entitled to the fruit of his experience, 
to his best and highest thought. No man ever held 
the standard of responsibility higher than he. He 
voted according to his judgment, his. conscience. 
He made no bargains — he neither bought nor sold. 

To correct evils, abolish abuses and inaugurate 
reforms, he believed was not only the duty, but the 
privilege, of a legislator. He neither sold nor mort- 
gaged himself. He was in Congress during the 
years of vast expenditure, of war and waste — when 
the credit of the nation was loaned to individuals — 
when claims were thick as leaves in June, when the 
amendment of a statute, the change of a single word, 
meant millions, and when empires were given to cor- 
porations. He stood at the summit of his power — 
peer of the greatest — a leader tried and trusted. He 
had the tastes of a prince, the fortune of a peasant, 



332 A TRIBUTE. 

and yet he never swerved. No corporation was 
great enough or rich enough to purchase him. His 
vote could not be bought "for all the sun sees, or 
the close earth wombs, or tlie profound seas hide." 
His hand was never touched by any bribe, and on 
his soul there never was a sordid stain. Poverty 
was his priceless crown. 

Above his marvellous intellectual gifts — above 
all place he ever reached, — above the ermine he 
refused, — rises his integrity like some great mountain 
peak — and there it stands, firm as the earth beneath, 
pure as the stars above. 

He was a great lawyer. He understood the 
frame-work, the anatomy, the foundations of law ; 
was familiar with the great streams and currents and 
tides of authority. 

He knew the history of legislation — the principles 
that have been settled upon the fields of war. He 
knew the maxims, — those crystallizations of common 
sense, those hand-grenades of argument. He was 
not a case-lawyer — a decision index, or an echo; 
he was original, thoughtful and profound. He had 
breadth and scope, resource, learning, logic, and above 



A TkinuTE. 333 

all, a sense of justice. He was painstaking and con- 
scientious — anxious to know the facts — preparing for 
e\-er\" attack, ready for e\'er\' defence. He rested onl}' 
when the end A\'as reached. During the contest, he 
neither sent nor received a flag of truce. He was 
true to his clients — making their case his. Feeling 
responsibilit}-, he listened patiently to details, and to 
his industry there were only the limits cjf time and 
strength. He was a student of the Constitution. He 
knew the boundaries of State and Federal jurisdiction, 
and no man was more familiar with those great de- 
cisions that are the peaks and promontories, the 
headlands and the beacons, of the law. 

He was an orator, logical, — earnest, intense and 
picturesque. He laid the foundation with care, with 
accuracy and skill, and rose by "cold gradation and 
well balanced form "' from the corner-stone of state- 
ment to the domed conclusion. He filled the stage. 
He satisfied the eye — the audience was his. He 
had that indefinable thing called presence. Tall, 
commanding, erect — ample in speech, graceful in 
compliment, Titanic in denunciation, rich in illustra- 
tion, prodigal of comparison and metaphor — and his 



334 



A TRIBUTF. 



sentences, measured and rhythmical, fell like music 
on the enraptured throng-. 

He abhorred the Pharisee, and loathed all con- 
scientious fraud. He had a profound aversion for 
those who insist on putting base motives back of the 
good deeds of others. He wore no mask. He knew 
his friends — his enemies knew him. 

He had no patience with pretence — with patriotic 
reasons for unmanly acts. He did his work and 
bravely spoke his thought. 

Sensitive to the last degree, he keenly felt the 
blows and stabs of the enxious and obscure — of the 
smallest, of the weakest — l)ut the greatest could not 
drive him from conviction's field. He would not 
stoop to ask or give an explanation. He left his 
words and deeds to justify themselves. 

He held in light esteem a friend who heard with 
half-believing ears the slander of a foe. He walked 
a highway of his own, and kept the company of his 
self-respect. He would not turn aside to avoid a 
foe — to greet or gain a friend. 

In his nature there was no compromise. To him 
there were but two paths — the right and wrong. 



A TRIBUTH 



335 



lie was nialii^ncd, niisreprcscnted and misunder- 
stood — but he would not answer. He knew that 
character speaks louder far than any words. He 
was as silent then as he is now — and his silence, 
better than any form of speech, refuted every charge. 

He was an American — proud of his countrv, that 
was and e\'er will be proud of him. He did not find 
perfection only in other lands. He did not grow 
small and shrunken, withered and apologetic, in the 
presence of those upon whom greatness had been 
thrust l)y chance. He could not be overawed by 
dukes or lords, nor flattered into xertebrateless sub- 
serviency by the patronizing smiles of kings. In 
the midst of conventionalities he had the feeling of 
suffocation. He believed in the royaltv of man, in 
the sovereignty of the citizen, and in the matchless 
greatness of this Republic. 

He \\as of the classic mould — a figure from the 
antitpie world. He had the pose of the great 
statues — the pride and bearing of the intellectual 
Greek, of the conquering Roman, and he stood in 
the wide free air, as though within his veins there 
flowed the blood of a hundred kinsjs. 



336 A TRinUTIt. 

And as he lived he died. Proudly he entered the 
darkness — or the dawn — that we call death. Un- 
shrinkingly he passed beyond our horizon, beyond 
the twilight's purple hills, beyond the utmost reach 
of human harm or help — to that vast realm of 
silence or of jov where the innumerable dwell, and 
he has left Avith us his wealth of thought and deed — 
the memory of a brave, imperious, honest man, who 
bowed alone to death. 



A tribute: 



COURTLANDT PALMER. 




FRIENDS : A thinker of ])urc 
thoughts, a speaker of bra\e words, a 
doer of generous deeds has reaehed 
_ _^^ . , the silent ha\en that all the dead have 
4-'^(©)q - reached, and where the Aoyage of 
ever)' life must end ; and we, his 
friends, who even now are hastening after him, are 
met to do the last kind acts that man may do for 
man — to tell his \'irtues and to la}- with tenderness 
and tears his ashes in the sacred place of rest and 
peace. 

Some one has said that in the open hands of death 
we find only what they ga\'e away. 

Let us beliexe that pure thoughts, bra\e words 
and generous deeds can never die. Let us believe 



338 A TRIBUTE. 

that they bear fruit and add forever to the well-being 
of the human race. Let us believe that a noble, self- 
denying life increases the moral wealth of man, and 
gives assurance that the future will be grander than 
the past. 

In the monotony of subservience, in the multitude 
of blind followers, nothing is more inspiring than a 
free and independent man — one who gives and asks 
reasons ; one who demands freedom and gives what 
he demands ; one who refuses to be slave or master. 
Such a man was Couktlandt Palmer, to whom we 
pay the tribute of respect and love. 

He was an honest man — he gave the rights he 
claimed. This was the foundation on which he built. 
To think for himself — to give his thought to others ; 
this was to him not only a privilege, not only a right, 
but a duty. 

He believed in self-preservation — in personal in- 
dependence — that is to say, in manhood. 

He preserved the realm of mind from the invasion 
of brute force, and protected the children of the brain 
from the Herod of authority. 

He investigated for himself the questions, the 
problems and the mysteries of life. Majorities were 



A TRIBUTE. 339 

nothing to him. No error could be old enough — 
popular, plausible or profitable enough — to bribe his 
judgment or to keep his conscience still. 

He knew that, next to finding truth, the greatest 
joy is honest search. 

He was a believer in intellectual hospitality, in the 
fair exchange of thought, in good mental manners, in 
the amenities of the soul, in the chivalry of discussion. 

He insisted that those who speak should hear ; 
that those who question should answer ; that each 
should strive not for a victory over others, but for the 
discovery of truth, and that truth when found should 
be welcomed by every human soul. 

He knew that truth has no fear of investigation — 
of being understood. He knew that truth loves the 
day — that its enemies are ignorance, prejudice, ego- 
tism, bigotry, hypocrisy, fear and darkness, and that 
intelligence, candor, honesty, love and light are its 
eternal friends. 

He believed in the morality of the useful — that 
the virtues are the friends of man — the seeds of joy. 

He knew that consequences determine the quality 
of actions, and " that whatsoever a man sows that 
shall he also reap." 



340 A TRIBUTE. 

Ill the positive pliilosophy of August Comte he 
found the framework of his creed. In the conckisions 
of that great, sublime and tender soul he found the 
rest, the serenity and the certainty he sought. 

The clouds had fallen from his life. He saw that 
the old faiths were but phases in the growth of man — 
that out from the darkness, up from the depths, the 
human race through countless ages and in every land 
had struggled towards the ever-growing light. 

He felt that the living are indebted to the noble 
dead, and that each should pay his debt ; that he 
should pay it by preserving to the extent of his power 
the good he has, by destroying the hurtful, by adding 
to tlie knowledge of the world, by giving better than 
he had received ; and that each should be the bearer 
of Jif torch, a giver of light for all that is, for all 
to be. 

This was the religion of duty perceived, of duty 
within the reach of man, within the circumference of 
the known — a religion without mystery, with experi- 
ence for the foundation of belief — a religion understood 
by the head and approved by the heart — a religion 
that appealed to reason with a definite end in view — 
the civilization and de\'elopment of the human race by 



A TRIBUTE. 341 

legitimate, adequate and natural means — that is to 
sav, by ascertaining the ct)nditions of progress and 
by teaching each to be noble enough to live for all. 

This is the gospel of man ; this is the gospel of 
this world; this is the religion of humanity; this 
is a philosophy that contemplates not with scorn, 
but with ])ity, with admiration and with love all that 
man has done, regarding, as it does, the past with all 
its faults and virtues, its sufferings, its cruelties and 
crimes, as the only road by which the perfect could 
be reached. 

He denied the supernatural — the phantoms and 
the ghosts that fill the twilight-land of fear. To 
him and for him there was but one religion — the 
religion of pure thoughts, of noble words, of self- 
denying deeds, of honest work for all the -world — the 
religion of Help and Hope. 

Facts were the foundation of his faith ; history 
was his prophet; reason his guide; duty his deity; 
happiness the end ; intelligence the means. 

He knew that man must be the providence of 
man. 

He did not believe in Religion and Science, but 
in the Relidon of Science — that is to sav, wisdom 



342 A TRIBUTE. 

glorified by love, the Saviour of our race — the 
religion that conquers prejudice and hatred, that 
drives all superstition from the mind, that enobles, 
lengthens and enriches life, that drives from every 
home the wolves of want, from every heart the 
fiends of selfishness and fear, and from every brain 
the monsters of the night. 

He lived and labored for his fellow-men. He 
sided with the weak and poor against the strong 
and rich. He welcomed light. His face was ever 
towards the East. 

According to his light he lived. "The world 
was his country — to do good his religion." There 
is no language to express a nobler creed than this ; 
nothing can be grander, more comprehensive, nearer 
perfect. This was the creed that glorified his life 
and made his death sublime. 

He was afraid to do wrong, and for that reason 
was not afraid to die. 

He knew that the end was near. He knew that 
his work was done. He stood within the twilight, 
within the deepening gloom, knowing that for the 
last time the gold was fading from the West and 
that there could not fall again within his eyes the 



A TRinUTIL ,343 

trcml)lin>;- lustre of another dawn. He knew that 
iiiglit had come, and )et his soul was filled with 
light, for in that night the memory of his generous 
deeds shone out like stars. 

What can Ave sa}' ? What words can solve the 
mystery of life, the mvstery of death ? What words 
can justly pay a tribute to the man who lived to his 
ideal, who spoke his honest thought, and who was 
turned aside neither by envv, nor hatred, nor contu- 
mely, nor slander, nor scorn, nor fear ? What words 
will do that life the justice that we know and feel ? 

A heart breaks, a man dies, a leaf falls in the far 
forest, a babe is born, and the great world sweeps on. 

By the grave of man stands the angel of Silence. 

No one can tell which is better — Life with its 
gleams and shadows, its thrills and pangs, its ecstasy 
and tears, its wreaths and thorns, its croAvns, its 
glories and Golgothas, or Death, with its peace, its 
rest, its cool and placid brow that hath within no 
memory or fear of grief or pain. 

Farewell, dear friend. The world is better for 
your life — The world is braver for your death. 

Farewell ! We loved you living, and we love 
you now. 



TRIBUTE TO RICHARD H. WHITING. 




FRIENDS: The river of another hfe 
has reached the sea. 

Again we are in the presence of 
that eternal peace that we call death. 

My life has been rich in friends, 
but I never had a better or a truer one 
than he who lies in silence here. He was as steadfast, 
as faithful, as the stars. 

Richard H. Whiting \\as an absolutely honest 
man. His word was gold — his promise was fulfill- 
ment — and there never has been, there never will be, 
on this poor earth, any thing nobler than an honest, 
lox'ing soul. 

This man was as reliable as the attraction of grav- 
itation ^ — he knew no shadow of turning. He was as 
generous as autumn, as hospitable as summer, and as 



346 A TRIBUTE. 

tender as a perfect day in June. He forgot only 
himself, and asked favors only for others. He 
begged for the opportunity to do good — to stand 
by a friend, to support a cause, to defend what he 
believed to be right. 

He was a lover of nature — of the woods, the fields 
and flowers. He was a home-builder. He believed 
in the family and the fireside — in the sacredness of 
the hearth. 

He was a believer in the religion of deed, and his 
creed was to do good. No man has ever slept in 
death who nearer lived his creed.* 

I have known him for many years, and have yet 
to hear a word spoken of him except in praise. 

His life was full of honor, of kindness and of 
helpful deeds. Besides all, his soul was free. He 
feared nothing, except to do wrong. He was a 
believer in the gospel of help and hope. He knew 
how much better, how much more sacred, a kind act 
is than any theory the brain has wrought. 

The good are the noble. His life filled the lives 
of others with sunshine. He has left a legacy of 
glory to his children. They can truthfully say that 
within their veins is right royal blood — the blood of 



A TRIIiUTK. . 347 

ail honest, generous man, of a steadfast friend, of one 
who was true to the very gates of death. 

If there be another world, another hfe Ijeyond 
the shore of this, — if the great and good who died 
upon this orb are there, — then the noblest and the 
best, with eager hands, have welcomed him — the 
equal in honor, in generosity, of any one that ever 
passed beyond the veil. 

To me this world is growing poor. New friends 
can ne\'er fill the places of the old. 

Farewell ! If this is the end, then you ha\-e left 
to us the sacred memory of a noble life. If this is 
not the end, there is no world in which you, my 
friend, will not be loved and welcomed. Farewell ! 



THE BRAIN. 




HE dark continent of motive and desire 
has never been explored. In the brain, 
that wondrous world with one inhabitant, 
there are recesses dim and dark, treach- 
erous sands and dangerous shores, where 
seeming sirens tempt and fade ; streams 
that rise in unknown lands from hidden springs, 
strange seas with ebb and flow of tides, resistless 
billows urged by storms of flame, profound and 
awful depths hidden by mist of dreams, obscure and 
phantom realms where vague and fearful things are 
half revealed, jungles where passion's tigers crouch, 
and skies of cloud and blue where fancies fly with 
])ainted wings that dazzle and mislead; and the poor 
sovereign of this pictured world is led by old desires 
and ancient hates, and stained by crimes of many 
vanished )'ears, and pushed by hands that long ago 
were dust, until he feels like some bewildered slave 
that Mockerv has throned and crowned. 



THE SACRED EEAVES. 




l/nff. EARLY four centuries ago Columbus, 
" the ach'enturous, in the blessed Island of 
Cuba, saw happy people with rolled leaves 
between their lips. Above their heads 
were little clouds of smoke. Their faces 
were serene, and in their eyes was the 
autumnal heaven of content. These people were 
kind, innocent, gentle and lo\ing. 

The climate of Cuba is the friendship of the earth 
and air, and of this climate the sacred leaves were 
born — the leaves that breed in the mind of him who 
uses them the cloudless, happy days in which they 
grew. 

These leaves make friends, and celebrate with 
gentle rites the vows of peace. They have given 
consolation to the world. They are the companions 
of the lonely — the friends of the imprisoned, of the 



35© THE SACRED LEAVES. 

exiled, of workers in mines, of fellers of forests, of 
sailors on the desolate seas. They are the givers of 
strength and calm to the vexed and wearied minds of 
those who build with thought and dream the temples 
of the soul. 

They tell of hope and rest. They smooth the 
wrinkled brows of pain — drive fears and strange 
misshapen dreads from out the mind and fill the heart 
with rest and peace. 

Within their magic warp and woof some potent 
gracious spell imprisoned lies, that, when released by 
fire, doth softly steal \vithin the fortress of the brain 
and bind in sleep the captured sentinels of care and 
grief 

These leaves are the friends of the fireside, and 
their <moke, like incense, rises from myriads of happy 
homes. 

Cuba is the smile of the sea. 



MRS. MARY H. FISKE. 



At Scottish Rite Hall, New York, February 6th, i8S^. 




FRIENDS: In the presence of the 
two great mysteries, Life and Death, 
we are met to say above this still, 
unconscious house of clay, a few words 
^"^^y^ of kindness, of regret, of love, and 

In this presence, let us speak of the goodness, the 
charitv, the generosity and the genius of the dead. 

Onlv flowers should be laid upon the tomb. In 
life's last pillow there should be no thorns. 

Marv Fiske was like herself — she patterned 
after none. She was a genius, and put her soul in 
all she did and wrote. She cared nothing for roads, 
nothing for beaten paths, nothing for the footsteps of 



352 A TRIBUTE. 

Others — she went across the fields and through the 
woods and by the winding streams, and down the 
vales, or over crags, wherever fancy led. She wrote 
lines that leaped with laughter and words that were 
wet with tears. She gave us quaint thoughts, and 
sayings filled with the "pert and nimble spirit of 
mirth." Her pages were flecked with sunshine and 
shadow, and in every word were the pulse and breath 
of life. 

Her heart went out to all the wretched in this 
weary world — and yet she seemed as joyous as 
though grief and death were nought but words. She 
wept where others Mept, but in her o^n misfortunes 
found the food of hope. She cared for the to-morrow 
of others, but not for her owti. She lived for to-day. 

S(5me hearts are like a waveless pool, satisfied to 
hold the image of a wondrous star — but hers was full 
of motion, life and light and storm. 

She longed for freedom. Every limitation was a 
prison's wall. Rules were shackles, and forms were 
made for serfs and slaves. 

She gave her utmost thought. She praised all 
generous deeds ; applauded the struggling and even 
those who failed. 



A TRIBUTE. 



353 



She pitied the poor, the forsaken, the friendless. 
No one could fall below her pity, no one could ^\•an- 
der beyond the circumference of her sympathy. To 
her there were no outcasts — they were victims. She 
knew that the inhabitants of palaces and penitentiaries 
might change places without adding to the injustice 
of the world. She knew that circumstances and con- 
ditions determine character — that the lowest and the 
worst of our race were children once, as pure as light, 
whose cheeks dimpled with smiles beneath the heaven 
of a mother's eyes. She thought of the road they 
had travelled, of the thorns that had pierced their feet, 
of the deserts they had crossed, and so, instead of 
words of scorn she gave the eager hand of help. 

No one appealed to her in vain. She listened to 
the story of the poor, and all she had she gave. A 
god could do no more. 

The destitute and suffering turned naturally to 
her. The maimed and hurt sought for her open door, 
and the helpless put their hands in hers. 

She shielded the weak — she attacked the strong. 

Her heart was open as the gates of day. She 
shed kindness as the sun sheds light. If all her 
deeds were flowers, the air would be faint with per- 



354 A TRIBUTE. 

fume. If all her charities could change to melodies, 
a symphony would fill the sky. 

Mary Fiske had within her brain the divine fire 
called genius, and in her heart the " touch of nature 
that makes the whole world kin." 

She wrote as a stream runs, that winds and 
babbles through the shadowy fields, that falls in 
foam of flight and haste and laughing joins the 
sea. 

A little while ago a babe was found — one that 
had been abandoned by its mother — left as a legacy 
to chance or fate. The warm heart of Mary Fiske, 
now cold in death, was touched. She took the 
waif and held it lovingly to her breast and made 
the child her own. 

We pray thee. Mother Nature, that thou wilt take 
this woman and hold her as tenderly in thy arms, as 
she held and pressed against her generous, throbbing 
heart, the abandoned babe. 

We ask no more. 

In this presence, let us remember our faults, our 
frailties, and the generous, helpful, self-denying, 
lovinpf deeds of Mary Fiske. 



Aug. 2S, 1810. Alto;. 2S, i88g. 

IN MEiMORY OF HORACE SEAVER 




ORACE SEAVER was a pioneer, a torch- 
bearer, a toiler in that great field we call 
the world — a worker for his fellow-men. 
At the end of his task he has fallen 
asleep, and we are met to tell the story 
of his long and useful life — to pav our 
tribute to his work and worth. 

He was one who saw the dawn while others lived 
in night. He kept his face toward the " purpling 
east" and watched the coming of the blessed day. 

He always sought for light. His object was to 
know — to find a reason for his faith — a fact on which 
to build. 

In superstition's sands he sought the gems of 
truth ; in superstition's night he looked for stars. 

Born in New England — reared amidst the cruel 
superstitions of his age and time, he had the manhood 
and the courage to investigate, and he had the good- 
ness and the courage to tell his honest thoughts. 



356 IN MEMORY OF 

He was always kind, and sought to win the con- 
fidence of men by sympathy and love. There was 
no taint or touch of malice in his blood. To him his 
fellows did not seem depraved — they were not wholly 
bad — there was within the heart of each the seeds of 
good. He knew that back of every thought and act 
were forces uncontrolled. He wisely said: "Circum- 
stances furnish the seeds of good and evil, and man 
is but the soil in which they grow." He fought the 
•creed, and loved the man. He pitied those who feared 
and shuddered at the thought of death — who dwelt 
in darkness and in dread. 

The religion of his day filled his heart with horror. 

He was kind, compassionate, and tender, and 
could not fall upon his knees before a cruel and 
revengeful God — he could not bow to one who slew 
with famine, sword and fire — to one pitiless as pesti- 
lence, relentless as the lightning stroke. Jehovah 
had no attribute that he could love. 

He attacked the creed of New England — a creed 
that had within it the ferocity of Knox, the malice of 
Calvin, the cruelty of Jonathan Edwards — a religion 
that had a monster for a God — a religion whose 
dogmas would have shocked cannibals feasting upon 
babes. 



HORACE SEAVER. 357 

Horace Seavcr followed the light of his brain — 
the impulse of his heart. He was attacked, but 
he answered the insulter with a smile ; and e\en 
he who coined malignant lies \\as treated as a 
friend misled. He did not ask God to forgive 
his enemies — he forgave them himself. He was 
sincere. Sincerity is the true and perfect mirror of 
the mind. It reflects the honest thought. It is 
the foundation of character, and without it there 
is no moral grandeur. 

Sacred are the lips from which has issued only 
truth. Over all wealth, above all station, above 
the noble, the robed and crowned, rises the sincere 
man. Happy is the man who neither paints nor 
patches, veils nor veneers ! Blessed is he who wears 
no mask. 

The man who lies before us wrapped in perfect 
peace, practiced no art to hide or half conceal his 
thought. He did not write or speak the double words 
that might be useful in retreat. He gave a truthful 
transcript of his mind, and sought to make his 
meaning clear as light. 

To use his own words, he had " the courage 
which impels a man to do his duty, to hold fast his 



358 IN MEMORY OF 

integrity, to maintain a conscience void of offence, at 
every hazard and at every sacrifice, in defiance of 
the world." 

He Hved to his ideal. He sought the approbation 
of himself. He did not build his character upon 
the opinions of others, and it was out of the verv 
depths of his nature that he asked this profound 
question : 

" What is there in other men that makes us desire 
their approbation, and fear their censure more than 
our own ? " 

Horace Seaver was a good and loyal citizen of 
the mental republic — a believer in intellectual hospi- 
tality, one who knew that bigotry is born of ignorance 
and fear — the provincialisms of the Ijrain. He did 
not belong to the tribe, or to the nation, but to the 
human race. His sympathy \\'as wide as want and, 
like the sky, bent above the suffering world. 

This man had that superb thing called moral 
courage — courage in its highest form. He knew 
that his thoughts were not the thoughts of others 
— that he was with the few, and that where one 
would take his side, thousands would be his eager 
foes. He knew that wealth would scorn and cultured 



HORACE SEAVER. 359 

ignorance deride, and that believers in the creeds, 
buttressed by law and custom, would hurl the missiles 
of revenge and hate. He knew that lies, like snakes, 
would fill the pathway of his life — and yet he told his 
honest thought — told it without hatred and without 
contempt — told it as it really was. And so, through 
all his days, his heart was sound and stainless to the 
core. 

When he enlisted in the army whose banner is 
light, the honest investigator was looked upon as lost 
and cursed, and even Christian criminals held him in 
contempt. The believing embezzler, the orthodox 
wife-beater, even the murderer, lifted his bloody 
hands and thanked God that on his soul there was no 
stain of unbelief. 

In nearly every state of our republic, the man who 
denied the absurdities and impossibilities lying at the 
foundation of what is called orthodox religion, was 
denied his civil rights. He was not canopied by the 
aegis of the law. He stood beyond the reach of sym- 
pathy. He was not allowed to testify against the 
invader of his home, the seeker for his life — his lips 
were closed. He was declared dishonorable, because 
he was honest. His unbelief made him a social leper, 



360 IN MEMORY OF 

a pariah, an outcast. He was the victim of religious 
hate and scorn. Arrayed against him were all the 
prejudices and all the forces and hypocrisies of society. 
All mistakes and lies were his enemies. Even the 
theist was denounced as a disturber of the peace, 
although he told his thoughts in kind and candid 
words. He was called a blasphemer, because he 
sought to rescue the reputation of his God from the 
slanders of orthodox priests. 

Such was the bigotry of the time, that natural 
love was lost. The unbelieving son was hated by 
his pious sire, and even the mother's heart was by 
her creed turned into stone. 

Horace Seaver pursued his way. He worked and 
wrought as best he could, in solitude and want. He 
knew'Ihe day would come. He lived to be rewarded 
for his toil — to see most of the laws repealed that had 
made outcasts of the noblest, the wisest, and the best. 
He lived to see the foremost preachers of the world 
attack the sacred creeds. He lived to see the sciences 
released from superstition's clutch. He lived to 
see the orthodox theologian take his place with the 
professor of the black art, the fortune-teller, and 
the astrologer. He lived to see the greatest of 



HORACE SCAVER. 361 

the world accept his thought — to see the theologian 
displaced by the true priests of Nature — by Hum- 
boldt and Darwin, by Huxley and Haeckel. 

Within the narrow compass of his life the world 
was changed. The railway, the steamship, and the 
telegraph made all nations neighbors. Countless 
inventions have made the luxuries of the past the 
necessities of to-day. Life has been enriched, and 
man ennobled. The geologist has read the records 
of frost and flame, of wind and wave — the astronomer 
has told the story of the stars — the biologist has 
sought the germ of life, and in every department of 
knowledge the torch of science sheds its sacred light. 

The ancient creeds have grown absurd. The 
miracles are small and mean. The inspired book is 
filled with fables told to please a childish world, and 
the dogma of eternal pain now shocks the heart and 
brain. 

He lived to see a monument un\eilcd to Bruno 
in the city of Rome — to Giordano Bruno — that great 
man who two hundred and eighty-nine years ago 
suffered death for having proclaimed the truths that 
since have filled the world with joy. He lived to 
see the victim of the church a victor — lived to see 



362 IN MEMORY OF 

his memory honored by a nation freed from papal 
chains. 

He worked knowing what the end must be — ex- 
pecting little while he lived — but knowing that every 
fact in the wide unix^erse was on his side. He knew 
that truth can wait, and so he worked patient as 
eternity. 

He had the brain of a philosopher and the heart 
of a child. 

Horace Seaver was a man of common sense. 

By that I mean, one who knows the law of aver- 
age. He denied the bible, not on account of what 
has been discovered in astronomy, or the length of 
time it took to form the delta of the Nile — but he 
compared the things he found with what he knew. 

H'e knew that antiquity added nothing to proba- 
bility — that lapse of time can never take the place of 
cause, and that the dust can never gather thick 
enough upon mistakes to make them equal w ith the 
truth. 

He knew, that the old, by no possibility, could 
have been more wonderful than the new, and that 
the present is a perpetual torch by which we know 
the past. 



HORACE SEAVER. 363 

To him all miracles were mistakes, whose parents 
were cunning and credulity. He knew that miracles 
were not, because they are not. 

He believed in the sublime, unbroken, and eternal 
march of causes and effects — denying the chaos of 
chance, and the caprice of power. 

He tested the past by the now, and judged of all 
the men and races of the world by those he knew. 

He believed in the religion of free thought and 
good deed — of character, of sincerity, of honest en- 
deavor, of cheerful help — and above all, in the religion 
of love and liberty — in a religion for every day — for 
the world in which we Vnc — for the present — the 
religion of roof and raiment, of food, of intelligence," 
of intellectual hospitality — the religion that gives 
health and happiness, freedom and content — in the 
religion of work, and in the ceremonies of honest 
labor. 

He lived for this world ; if there be another, he 
will live for that. 

He did what he could for the destruction of fear — 
the destruction of the imaginary monster who rewards 
the few in heaven — the monster who tortures the 
man\' in perdition. 



364 IN MEMORY OF 

He was a friend of all the \\orld, and sought to 
civilize the human race. 

For more than fifty years he labored to free the 
bodies and the souls of men — and many thousands 
have read his words with jo)-. He sought the 
suffering and oppressed. He sat b)' those in pain — 
and his helping hand was laid in pity on the brow of 
death. 

He asked only to be treated as he treated others. 
He asked for only what he earned, and had the man- 
hood to cheerfully accept the consequences of his 
actions. He expected no reward for the goodness of 
another. 

But he has lived his life. We should shed no 
tears except the tears of gratitude. We should rejoice 
that he lived so long. 

In Nature's course, his time had come. The 
four seasons v.-ere complete in him. The Spring 
could never come again. The measure of his years 
was full. 

When the day is done — when the work of a life 
is finished — when the gold of evening meets the dusk 
of night, beneath the silent stars the tired laborer 
should fall asleep. To outlive usefulness is a double 



HORACE SEAVER. 365 

death. " Let me iKJt live after my flame laeks oil, 
to be the snuff of younger spirits." 

When the old oak is visited in vain by Spring — 
when light and rain no longer thrill — it is not well 
to stand leafless, desolate, and alone. It is better far 
to fall where Nature softly covers all with woven 
moss and creeping \'ine. 

How little, after all, we know of what is ill or well ! 
How little of this wondrous stream of cataracts and 
pools — this stream of life, that rises in a world un- 
known, and flows to that mysterious sea whose shore 
the foot of one who comes has never pressed ! How 
little of this life we know — this struggling ray of 
light "twixt gloom and gloom — this strip of land b\- 
verdure clad, between the unknown wastes — this 
throbbing moment filled with love and pain — this 
dream that lies between the shadowy shores of sleep 
and death ! 

We stand upon this verge of crumbling time. 
We love, we hope, we disappear. Again we mingle 
with the dust, and the "knot intrinsicate " forever 
falls apart. 

But this we know : A noble life enriches all the 
world. 



366 IN MEMORY OF HORACE SEAVER. 

Horace Seavcr lived for others. He accepted toll 
and hope deferred. Poverty was his portion. Like 
Socrates, he did not seek to adorn his body, but 
rather his soul with the jewels of charity, modesty, 
courage, and above all, with a love of liberty. 

Farewell, O brave and modest man ! 

Your lips, between which truths burst into 
blossom, are forever closed. Your loving heart has 
ceased to beat. Your busy brain is still, and from 
your hand has dropped the sacred torch. 

Your noble, self-denying life has honored us, and 
we will honor you. 

You were my friend, and I was yours. Above 
your silent clay I pay this tribute to your worth. 

Farewell 1 



WHAT IS POETRY? 




HE whole world is engac^ed in the invisi- 
ble commerce of thought — that is to say, 
in the exchange of thoughts by words, 
symbols, sounds, colors, and forms. The 
motions of the silent, invisible world 
where feehng glows and thought flames — 
it contains all seeds of action — are made known 
only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, 
uses, and c[ualities — so that the visible universe is a 
dictionary, an aggregation of symbols, by which and 
through which is carried on the invisible commerce of 
thought. Each object is capable of many meanings, 
or of being used in many ways to convey ideas, or 
states of feeling, or facts that take place in the world 
of the brain. 

The greatest poet is the one who selects the best, 
the most appropriate symbols to convey the best, the 
highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each man occupies 



3Db WHAT IS POILTKY t 

a world of his own. He is the only citizen of his 
world. He is subject and sovereign, and the best he 
can do is to give the facts concerning the world in 
which he lives, to the citizens of other worlds. No 
two of these worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, 
from the Hat, barren, and uninteresting — from the 
small and shriveled and worthless — to those whose 
rivers and mountains and seas and constellations 
belittle and cheapen the visible universe. The inhabi- 
tants of these marvelous worlds have been the singers 
of songs, utterers of great speech — the creators of art. 

And here lies the difference between creators and 
imitators : the creator tells what passes in his own 
world — the imitator does not. The imitator abdicates, 
and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. 
He is^ike one who, hearing a traveler talk, pretends 
to others that he has traveled. 

In nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged. 
For the sake of beauty, they have allowed him to 
speak, and for that reason he has told the story of the 
oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest 
men and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all 
others, has added to the intellectual beauty of the 
world. 

What I have said is not only true of poetry — it is 



WHAT IS POETRY ? 369 

true of all speech. All arc compelled to use the visi- 
ble world as a dictionary. Words have been in- 
vented and are being invented — for the reason that 
new powers are found in the old symbols, new quali- 
ties, relations, uses, and meanings. The growth of 
language means the devclopnicnt of the human mind. 
The savage needs but few symbols — the civilized 
many — the poet most of all. 

The old idea was, however, that the poet must be 
a rhymer. Before printing was known, it was said 
that rhyme assists the memory. That excuse no 
longer exists. 

Is rhyme a necessary part of poetry? In my judg- 
ment, rhyme is a hindrance to expression. The 
rhymer is compelled to wander from his subject — to 
say more or less than he means — to introduce irrele- 
vant matter that interferes continually with the dra- 
matic action and is a perpetual obstruction to sincere 
utterance. 

All poems, of necessity, must be short. The 
highly and purely poetic is the sudden bursting into 
blossom of a great and tender thought. The plant- 
ing of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must 
be rapid. The spring must be quick and warm — the 
soil perfect, the sunshine and rain enough — every- 



370 WHAT IS POETRY ? 

thing should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. In 
poetry, as in wit, the crystallization must be sudden. 

The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme 
is aliindrance, rhythm seems to be the comrade of 
the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation. Un- 
der emotion the blood rises and falls, the muscles 
contract and relax, and this action of the blood is as 
rhythmical as the rise and fall of the sea. In the high- 
est form of expression, the thought should be in 
harmony with this natural ebb and flow. 

The highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical 
form. I have sometimes thought that an idea selects 
its own words, chooses its own garments, and that 
when the thought ha:s possession, absolutely, of the 
speaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought 
to clothe itself. 

The great poetry of the world keeps time with the 
winds and waves. 

I do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at 
accurately measured intervals. Perfect time is the 
death of music. There should always be room for 
eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change 
there may be in the rhythm or time, the action itself 
should suggest perfect freedom. 

A word more about rh\thm. I believe that certain 



WHAT IS POETRY? 371 

feelings and passions — joy, grief, emulation, revenge, 
produce certain molecular movements in the brain — 
that e\ery thought is accompanied by certain physical 
phenomena. Now it may be that certain sounds, 
colors, and forms produce the same molecular action 
in the brain that accompanies certain feelings, and 
that these sounds, colors, and forms produce first, the 
molecular movements, and these in their turn re- 
produce the feelings, emotions, and states of mind 
capable of producing the same or like molecular 
movements. So that what we call heroic music, pro- 
duces the same molecular action in the brain — the 
same physical changes — that are produced by the real 
feeling of heroism ; that the sounds we call plaintive 
produce the same molecular movement in the brain 
that grief, or the twilight of grief, actually produces. 
There may be a rhythmical molecular movement be- 
longing to each state of mind, that accompanies each 
thought or passion, and it may Ijc that music, or 
painting, or sculpture, produces the same state of 
mind or feeling that produces the music or painting 
or sculpture, by producing the same molecular move- 
ments. 

All arts are born of the same spirit, and express 
like thoughts in different ways — that is to say, they 



372 WHAT IS POETRY .'' 

produce like states of mind and feeling. The 
sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the ora- 
tor, work to the same end, with different materials. 
The painter expresses through form and color and re- 
lation ; the sculptor through form and relation. The 
poet also paints and chisels — his words give form, re- 
lation, and color. His statues and his paintings do 
not crumble, neither do they fade, nor will they, as 
long as language endures. The composer touches 
the passions, produces the very states of feeling pro- 
duced by the painter and sculptor, the poet and ora- 
tor. In all these there must be rhythm — that is to 
say, proportion — that is to say, harmony, melody. 

So that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes 
the conimon, who gives new meanings to old sym- 
bols, who transfigures the ordinary things of life. 
lie must deal with the hopes and fears, and the 
experiences, of the people. 

The poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem 
is like a perfect day. It has tlie undefinable charm of 
naturalness and ease. It must not appear to be the 
result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves, 
that man does best that which he does easiest. 

The great poet is the instrumentality, not always 
of his time, but of the best of his time, and he must 



WHAT IS POETRY ? 373 

be in unison and accord with the ideals of his race. 
The subhmer he is, the simpler he is. The thoughts 
of the people must be clad in the garments of feeling 
— the words must be known, apt, familiar. The 
hight must be in the thought — the depth in the 
sympath\\ 

In the olden time they used to have May-day par- 
ties, and the prettiest child was crowned Queen of 
May. Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife look- 
ing at their little daughter clad in white and crowned 
with roses. They would wonder, while they looked 
at her, how they exxr came to have so beautiful a 
child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual 
children or ideals of the people. They must not be 
gemmed and garlanded beyond the recognition of 
their parents. Out from all the flowers and beauty 
must look the eyes of the child they know. 

We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in 
art. Milton's heavenly militia excites our laughter. 
Lighthouses have driven sirens from the dangerous 
coasts. We have found that we do not depend on 
the imagination for wonders — there are millions of 
miracles under our feet. 

Nothing can be more marvelous than the common 
and everyday facts of life. The phantoms have been 



374 WHAT IS POETRY f 

cast aside. Men and women are enough for men 
and women. In their h\'es are all the tragedy and 
comedy that they can comprehend. 

The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the 
winged and impossible — he paints life as he sees it, 
people as he knows them, and in whom he is inter- 
ested. " The Angelas," the perfection of pathos, is 
nothing but two peasants bending their heads in 
thankfulness as they hear the solemn sound of the 
distant 1x11 — two peasants, who have nothing to be 
thankful for — nothing l)ut weariness and want, noth- 
ing but crusts that they soften with their tears- ■ 
nothing. And. yet as you look at that picture, you 
feel that they haye something besides to be thankful 
for — that they have life, love, and hope — and so the 
distant bell makes music in their simple hearts. 



THE MUSIC OF WACiNER. 




Response to the Toast: ''Music, Noblest of the Arts,'' at the 
Liederkranz Stanton-Scidl Banquet, New York City, April 
2d, i8gi. 



TT is probable that I was selected to speak 
about music, because, not knowing one 
note from another, I have no prejudice 
on the subject. All I can say is, that I 
know what I like, and, to tell the truth, I 
like every kind, enjoy it all, from the hand 
organ to the orchestra. 

Knowing nothing of the science of music, I am 
not always looking for defects, or listening for discords. 
As the young robin cheerfully swallows whatever 
comes, I hear with gladness all that is played. 

Music has been, I suppose, a gradual growth, 
subject to the law of evolution ; as nearly every- 
thing, with the possible exception of theology, has 
been and is under this law. 

Music may be divided into three kinds : First, 
the music of simple time, without any particular em- 
phasis—and this may be called the music of tlic 
heels ; second, music in which time is varied, in 



37" THE MUSIC OF WAGNER. 

which there is the eager haste and the dehcious delay, 
that is, the fast and slow, in accordance with our 
feelings, with our emotions — and this may be called 
the music of the heart ; third, the music that includes 
time and emphasis, the hastening- and the delay, and 
something in addition, that produces not only states 
of feeling, but states of thought. This may be called 
the music of the head, — the music of the brain. 

Music expresses feeling and thought, without 
language. It was below and before speech, and it is 
above and beyond all words. Beneath the waves is 
the sea — above the clouds is the sky. 

Before man found a name for any thought, or 
thing, he had hopes and fears and passions, and these 
were rjjdely expressed in tones. 

Of one thing, however, I am certain, and that is, 
that Music was born of Love. Had there never been 
any human affection, there never could have been 
uttered a strain of music. Possibly some mother, 
looking in the eyes of her babe, gave the first melody 
to the enraptured air. 

Language is not subtle enough, tender enough, 
to express all that we feel ; and when language fails, 
the highest and deepest longings are translated into 
music. Music is the sunshine — the climate — of the 
soul, and it floods the heart with a perfect June. 



THE MUSIC OF WAGNER. 377 

I am also satisfied that the greatest music is the 
most marvellous mingling of Love and Death. Love 
is the greatest of all passions, and Death is its shadow. 
Death gets all its terror from Love, and Love gets its 
intensity, its radiance, its glory and its rapture, from 
the darkness of Death. Love is a flower that grows 
on the edge of the grave. 

The old music, for the most part, expresses 
emotion, or feeling, through time and emphasis, and 
what is known as melody. Most of the old operas 
consist of a few melodies connected by unmeaning 
recitative. There should be no unmeaning music. 
It is as though a writer should suddenly leave his 
subject and write a paragraph consisting of nothing 
but a repetition of one word like " the," " the," " the," 
or " if," " if," " if," varying the repetition of these 
words, but without meaning, — and then resume the 
subject of his article. 

I am not saying that great music was not pro- 
duced before Wagner, but I am simply endeavoring 
to show the steps that have been taken. It was 
necessary that all the music should have been written, 
in order that the greatest might be produced. The 
same is true of the drama. Thousands and thousands 
prepared the way for the supreme dramatist, as mil- 
lions prepared the way for the supreme composer. 



378 THli MUSIC OF vva(;ner. 

Wlicn I read Sh;ikcs|)carc, I am astonislicd that 
he has expressed so much with common words, to 
which he gives new meaning; and so when I heai" 
Wagner, I exclaim : Is it possible that all this is done 
with common air ? 

In Wagner's music there is a touch of chaos that 
suggests the infinite. The melodies seem strange 
and changing forms, like summer clouds, and weird 
harmonies come like sounds from the sea brought by 
fitful winds, and others moan liki: wa\es on desolate 
shores, and mingled with thesi:, are shouts of joy, 
with sighs and sobs and rij)i)lcs of laughter, and the 
wondrous voices of eternal love. 

XVagner is the Shakespeare of music. 

The funeral march for Siegfried is the funeral 
music for all the dead. Should all the goils die, this 
music would l)e perfectly a])propriate. It is ele- 
mental, universal, eternal. 

The lo\e-music in Tristan and IsoUIe is, like 
Romeo and Juliet, an expression of the human heart 
for all time. So the love-duet in The l'l\ ing Dutch- 
man has in it the consecration, the infinite self-denial, 
of low. The wdiok' heart is gi\en; e\'ery note has 
wings, antl I'ises and jjoises like an eagle in the hea\-en 
of sound. 



Till' MUSIC OF WAGNER. 379 

When I listen to the music of Wagner, I see 
pictures, forms, glimpses of the perfect, the swell of 
a hip, the wave of a breast, the glance of an eye. I 
am in the midst of great galleries. Before me are 
passing the endless panoramas. I see vast land- 
scapes with valleys of verdure and vine, with soaring 
crags, snow-crowned. I am on the wide seas, where 
countless billows burst into the whitecaps of joy. I 
am in the depths of caverns roofed with mighty 
crags, while through some rent I see the eternal stars. 
In a moment the music becomes a river of melody, 
flowing through some wondrous land; suddenly it 
falls in strange chasms, and the mighty cataract is 
changed to seven-hued foam. 

Great music is always sad, because it tells us of 
the perfect ; and such is the difference between what 
we are and that which music suggests, that even in 
the vase of joy we find some tears. 

The music of Wagner has color, and when I hear 
the violins, the morning seems to slowly come. A 
horn puts a star alwve the horizon. The night, in 
the purple hum of the bass, wanders away like some 
enormous bee across wide fields of dead clover. The 
light grows whiter as the violins increase. Colors 
come from other instruments, and then the full 
orchestra floods the world with day. 



380 THE MUSIC OF WAGNER. 

Wagner seems not only to have given us new 
tones, new combinations, but the moment the or- 
chestra begins to play his music, all the instrum.ents 
are transfigured. They seem to utter the sounds 
that they have been longing to utter. The horns run 
riot; the drums and cymbals join in the general 
joy; the old bass viols are alive with passion; the 
'cellos throb with love; the violins are seized with a 
divine fury, and the notes rush out as eager for the air 
as pardoned prisoners for the roads and fields. 

The music of Wagner is filled with landscapes. 
There are some strains, like midnight, thick with 
constellations, and there are harmonies like islands in 
the far seas, and others like palms on the desert's 
edge. His music satisfies the heart and brain. It is 
not only for memory; not only for the present, but for 
prophecy. 

Wagner was a sculptor, a painter, in sound. 
When he died, the greatest fountain of melody that 
ever enchanted the world, ceased. His music will 
instruct and refine forever. 

All that I know about the operas of Wagner I 
have learned from Anton Scidl. I believe that he 
is the noblest, tenderest and most artistic interpreter 
of the great composer that has ever lived. 




LEAVES OF GRASS. 



\'MS you read the marvelous book, or the / 

^'\'iM\t a''^*^"' ^^^^"^^^ Leaves of Grass, you P^/ 
■^>v^ feel the freedom of the antique world ; / 

% ' you hear the voices of the morning, of 

c-^\^'A the first great singers — voices elemental 
^^ as those of sea and storm. The horizon 
enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are for- 
gotten—the realization of the will, the accomplishment 
of the ideal, seem to be within your power. Ob- 
structions become petty and disappear. The chains and 
])ars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost. 
The soul is in the open air, under the blue and 
stars — the flag of Nature. Creeds, theories, and 
philosophies ask to be examined, contradicted, recon- 
structed. Prejudices disappear, superstitions vanish, 
and custom abdicates. The sacred places become 
highways, duties and desires clasp hands and become 
comrades and friends. Authority drops the scepter, 
the priest the miter, and the purple falls from kings. 
The inanimate becomes articulate, the meanest and 
humblest things utter speech, and the dumb and 



382 LEAVES OF GRASS. 

voiceless burst into song. A feeling of independence 
takes possession of the soul, the body expands, the 
blood flows full and free, superiors vanish, flattery is 
a lost art, and life becomes rich, royal, and superb. 
The world becomes a personal possession, and the 
oceans, the continents, and constellations belong to 
you. You are in the center, everything radiates from 
you, and in your veins beats and throbs the pulse of 
all life. 

You become a rover, careless and free. You 
wander by the shores of all seas and hear the eternal 
psalm. You feci the silence of the wide forest, and 
stand beneath the intertwined and over-arching 
boughs, entranced with symphonies of winds and 
woods. You are borne on the tides of eager and 
swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as 
they fall beneath the scven-hued arch, and watch the 
eagles as they circling soar. 

You traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the 
scarred and threatening cliffs. You stand in orchards 
where the blossoms fall like snow, where the birds 
nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless jour- 
neys through the happy air. You li\'e the* lives of 
those who till the earth, and walk amid the perfumed 
fields, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth 



LEAVES OF GRASS. 383 

and scope of earth and sky. You are in the great 
cities, in the midst of multitudes, of the endless pro- 
cessions. You are on the wide plains — the prairies — 
with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, 
and you feel the soft grass yielding under your feet. 
You sail in many ships, and breathe the free air of the 
sea. You travel many roads, and countless paths. 
You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts ; 
you pity kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes 
out to all the suffering and insane, the oppressed and 
enslaved, and even to the infamous. You hear the 
din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of 
all tools, instruments, and machines. You become 
familiar with men and women of all employments, 
trades, and professions — with birth and burial, with 
wedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud 
and flame of war, and you enjoy the ineffable perfect 
days of peace. 

In this one book, in these wondrous Leaves of 
Grass, you find hints and suggestions, touches and 
fragments, of all there is of life, that lies between the 
babe whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his 
mother's laughing, loving eyes, and the old man, 
snow-crowned, who, with a smile, extends his hand 
to death. 



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